


if here was there

by MourningElegance



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Auror Draco Malfoy, Auror Harry Potter, Auror Training, Aurors, Confessions, Depression, Draco Malfoy & Harry Potter Friendship, Draco Malfoy & Pansy Parkinson Friendship, Draco Malfoy in the Muggle World, Drama, Drunk Draco Malfoy, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Enemies to Friends, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Eventual Romance, Explicit Language, Flashbacks, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Humor, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Hurt Draco Malfoy, Hurt/Comfort, Inspired by Poetry, Love Confessions, M/M, Nightmares, POV Draco Malfoy, Pining Draco Malfoy, Post-Deathly Hallows, Post-Hogwarts, Post-War, Protective Harry Potter, Recovery, Redemption, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Slow Romance, Some Humor
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-20
Updated: 2017-08-20
Packaged: 2018-12-04 19:52:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 23,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11562177
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MourningElegance/pseuds/MourningElegance
Summary: “Malfoy. You- you’re-” Potter gawked openly, looking Draco up and down in disbelief. “-wearing Muggle clothing.”Draco paused, glancing down at his trainers and jeans and worn wool coat, feeling suddenly exposed and very vulnerable. "Well, yes," he managed, not quite meeting the other man's eyes. "This is a Muggle store, after all."* * *Three years on, the war continues to haunt Draco Malfoy. Jobless, depressed, and shunned by the whole of wizarding society, he is surviving but not living. That is, until a series of coincidental encounters with Harry Potter send his life into rather welcomed disarray.





	1. if

**Author's Note:**

> _If_
> 
>  
> 
> If freckles were lovely, and day was night,  
> And measles were nice and a lie warn’t a lie,  
> Life would be delight,—  
> But things couldn’t go right  
> For in such a sad plight  
> I wouldn’t be I.
> 
> If earth was heaven and now was hence,  
> And past was present, and false was true,  
> There might be some sense  
> But I’d be in suspense  
> For on such a pretense  
> You wouldn’t be you.
> 
> If fear was plucky, and globes were square,  
> And dirt was cleanly and tears were glee  
> Things would seem fair,—  
> Yet they’d all despair,  
> For _if here was there_  
>  We wouldn’t be we.
> 
> -ee cummings

“Draco Malfoy to see Callum Hulbert.” 

Draco managed to keep a neutral face as the witch behind the Ministry security desk- a tiny, drab thing with terribly mousy hair- audibly squeaked upon hearing him announce his name.

Eyes panicked, the woman spared him half a glance before jerking her head down, hastily shuffling through the pile of parchment on her desk. 

“Ah- yes, Mister Ma-Malfoy,” she stammered after a moment. “A ten o’clock appointment with Mister Hulbert. If you could just- present your wand for verification, please-”

Draco gave a polite nod, reached in his robe pocket and presented his wand, handle-side first. This action prompted a panicked squeal from the witch. Draco grit his teeth. Stuttering an apology, the secretary gingerly took his wand by her fingertips, hand tremoring, acting as though it were volatile. 

Ten minutes, three more flustered apologies and one pounding migraine later, Draco wondered, not for the first time, if this interview was truly worth the effort.

 

* * *

 

Nearly three years had passed since the war’s end. Most days, that past seemed an eternity away to Draco- another lifetime, the memories surreal and fragmented. Other days- the bad ones- he remembered as vividly as if it’d all happened last week. 

The worst days followed the dark nights. When he dreamed of wartime and carnage and woke with phantom spells still crackling across his skin. When the screams of the dying and _his_ maniacal laughter replayed over and over like some sort of twisted melody through his subconscious. 

Those days, he seldom got out of bed. Just lay there, waiting for time to pass. Simultaneously exhausted yet restless and wholly apathetic.

It was all rather morose, he supposed. But nothing less than he deserved, really.

 

* * *

 

Junior Assistant to the Head of the International Department of Magical Trading Standards Body. It was an utterly ridiculous job title. At the least, if his application were rejected, it would save him the headache of trying to remember that mouthful. 

The Head of the Department, Callum Hulbert, was a squat, portly sort of fellow. Prematurely balding with watery grey eyes. Draco knew within less than a minute of starting the interview that he wouldn’t be offered the position. 

He was rather good at recognizing the signs of rejection by now, Draco liked to think. After all, he’d had nearly three years of practice. The tentative, limp handshake. Desperate avoidance of eye contact. Uncomfortable fidgeting. Irrelevant questions and hastily interrupted answers.

The pointed looks at his sleeved left forearm. 

Draco could tell. Even so, he finished the interview, pleasant and conversational. Shook Hulbert’s hand a second time. Thanked him for his consideration whilst looking him in the eyes, head held high. 

He had nothing if not his pride.

 

* * *

 

He had opted to take his N.E.W.T.S after the war's end. Had done quite well too, all things considered. Five passing grades. Not the groundbreaking achievement he had always anticipated for his final wizarding examinations, but he hadn’t done it for merit in the end anyhow. 

Some students had returned to Hogwarts for an additional year of schooling prior to taking their exams. He’d received an owl himself, from Minerva McGonagall, much to his astonishment, months and months after the trials.

He’d never sent a reply. Elected to study himself and take the exams independently. They were a means to an end by that point. And if nothing else, the war had left him with his sense of self-preservation fully intact. Returning to Hogwarts was never a viable option.

Ultimately, his qualifications didn’t make any difference in regards to his employment prospects. Employers didn’t much care if he had five, let alone ten N.E.W.T.S. He’d quickly realised that his name alone was enough to bar him from any respectable position. No one wanted to hire an ex-Death Eater. A war criminal. A _Malfoy._

The name that had once filled him with such familial pride. It seemed fitting, somehow, that it was now the source of his oppression.

He had thought- hoped, rather- that with three years passed since the war, things might get better. That perhaps his job prospects might improve. That with the passage of time- with hurts less fresh and losses less real- people might learn to forget. 

In some ways, things had changed. Strangers no longer outright pointed at him on the street. The Howlers had ceased after the first year or so. The blatant taunting and jeers, and sometimes, outright abuse from passers-by had all but stopped. 

But people never forgot. 

It was a different sort of injury now. Silent shunning and stares and whispers. People turned their faces, averted their gaze, kept their berth. Crossed the street to avoid crossing his path. Changed tables if he sat nearby. As if he were some type of catching disease. 

He’d learned to adapt; to keep his distance when possible and maintain a face when it wasn’t. Reciprocated ignorance toward society was the best means to survival. Confrontation was futile.

He had tried that initially- fighting back against his attackers. He had thrown punches in return, retaliated with his own insults and thinly veiled threats. Fought words with words and fists with fists. Fighting made no difference though, neither in outcome nor in calming his inner demons.

And so, Draco stopped fighting back. He’d buried his rage and self-hatred and remorse and every other ugly emotion deep, deep away in the furthest reaches of his mind. In return, society began to ignore him. And with a forced acceptance, Draco had played the role of scorned recluse ever since.

 

* * *

 

The Ministry of Magic had been all but rebuilt after the war, both literally and figuratively. They’d done away with Thicknesse quickly enough after the Dark Lord’s demise. The layers of corruption and infiltration in the Ministry were soon exposed- all the scandal and secrets laid bare to the scrutiny of the public eye. 

There had been outrage- rioting and protests and demands for government upheaval. Draco recalled reading all about the Ministry’s collapse in the Daily Prophet- a welcome distraction from his own, personal deterioration at the time. 

The newly appointed Minister, Kingsley Shacklebolt, was soon sworn to office to appease the masses. Under his reign, the Ministry had undergone total reformation. Gone were the days of Muggle-born registration and Snatchers and totalitarian terror. ‘Harmony, Justice, and Equality for All’ was the Ministry’s new dogma. Trite as it sounded, Draco had to admit that there were worse ideologies to live by.

The Ministry building itself had also undergone extensive renovation since Draco's last visit. Granted, he hadn't exactly been in the best state of mind then. Shackled and escorted by wand-point to the courtrooms for his sentencing hearing, he unsurprisingly hadn't been examining the Ministry's interior design too carefully. 

However, the vast, glass ceiling of the Ministry’s atrium was definitely new, Draco noted to himself on the journey back from Hulbert’s office. Seemingly hundreds of meters high, the vaulted, stained-glass ceiling gleamed and shimmered as the high noon sun shone through. Sporadic patches of rainbow-coloured light were illuminated across the lobby’s white marble floor. 

Obviously an illusion, but very well done- one which rivaled the likes of Hogwart’s Great Hall, in Draco’s opinion. Interest piqued, he stopped in the atrium’s center and gazed upwards, ignoring the dazed stares of a nearby group of witches who’d clearly recognized him. 

Draco stood in silent study for a minute, contemplating the spellwork involved in constructing the impressive enchantment. Obviously, some sort of undetectable extension charm to create the illusion of height. But the glass wasn’t transparent- how they’d so clearly mimicked the impression of sunlight through opaque-

“Merlin’s hairy balls, is that _Draco Malfoy?"_

Unfortunately use to such proclamations, Draco merely blinked and turned his attention away from the ceiling. Locating the source of the voice, Draco’s eyes widened slightly, unable to completely conceal his surprise. 

Across the lobby stood Ronald Weasley- looking nearly the same as Draco remembered him from his Hogwarts days, though perhaps slightly taller, and even more freckled, orange hair clashing horribly with his red robes. Red, trainee Auror robes, Draco noted. And then, he noticed who Weasley was speaking _to-_

Harry bloody Potter. In his own matching set of robes, mouth agape as he stared at Draco with an unreadable expression. 

Before he could begin to think of how to respond, Weasley was stalking across the lobby, teeth bared and fists clenched. 

Draco frowned and unconsciously reached a hand into his robe pocket, grasping his wand loosely. Surely Weasley wouldn’t dare attack him in broad daylight, in the Ministry of Magic of all places. However, Draco reminded himself, Weasley had never been the brains behind the whole Potter-Granger-Weasley operation. 

Taking an instinctive step backwards, Draco squared his shoulders as Weasley stopped less than a meter away, eyes narrowed dangerously. 

“What the _hell_ are you doing here, _Malfoy?"_

The man’s raised voice carried through the vaulted, echo-prone atrium, prompting gasps from a few nearby employees. 

Years of practice had Draco smoothing his face into an expressionless mask. “That’s really none of your concern,” he responded mildly. 

Draco’s forced-calm demeanor had an igniting effect on Weasley’s fury, and across from him, the other man began to sputter in indignation, face turning nearly as red as his robes. It would be almost comical, Draco thought, if they weren’t in quite so public a setting. They were certainly catching people’s attention now, he noted with a small degree of unease, as more Ministry employees stopped to watch the unfolding spectacle.

“You- you bloody, traitorous _Death Eater!"_

“Ron, that’s enough.”

A new voice joined the fray- and there was Harry Potter, ever the noble Gryffindor, with his hand on Weasley’s shoulder in gentle restraint. 

“But Harry! He-”

“Ron, I know,” Potter interrupted, voice unnervingly calm, gripping his friend's shoulder even more tightly. “But this really isn’t the place.” 

Weasley shrugged his shoulders violently, knocking off Potter’s hand, but his words seemed to have done the trick. Glancing around at the staring spectators, Weasley breathed heavily, face falling, seemingly chagrined by his outburst. 

Pursing his lips, Draco slowly withdrew his hand from his pocket, opting instead to fold his arms across his chest. The crowd around them began to disperse now that the prospect of a rousing duel was greatly diminished. 

Draco started slightly as Potter’s unsettlingly green eyes met his own. “Malfoy,” Potter said with a small frown, seemingly lost for words. Like Weasley, he too had put on a few inches since Hogwarts, and though still fairly slender, was more toned and muscled than Draco remembered. His hair was as obnoxiously unruly as ever, Draco noted in annoyance. 

He gave the pair a tense nod of acknowledgement. “Potter. Weasley.”

“Why are you here, though?”

Potter’s voice held no malice or accusation, only genuine bewilderment. 

“Probably for another trial,” Weasley muttered under his breath. “Who’d you try and kill this time, Malfoy?” 

Draco remained silent, unphased by the accusation. His headache was quickly returning with a vengeance. Potter and Weasley continued to stare at him, obviously expecting an explanation to his presence. And though he owed them nothing, Draco relented, too indifferent to argue.

“If you must know, I was here to interview for a position.”

Weasley let out a sharp, horrible bark of laughter. “You must be joking! Blimey, Malfoy- as if you’d ever have _any_ chance of working for the _Ministry!_ You’re not worth the lowest job here! Why even bother?”

The question was clearly rhetorical, but Draco found himself shrugging in response. “Why indeed.” And with that, Draco turned to walk away, though not before meeting the gaze of Harry Potter, whose eyes held something too akin to sympathy for Draco’s liking.

Ignoring Weasley’s continued heckling from behind, he pulled his robes tightly around himself and strode toward the Ministry’s exit. 

Face resolutely locked in an impassive expression, he made his way back through security and Apparated from the assigned Ministry checkpoint. Once safely home, Draco allowed himself a shaky sigh, rubbing a hand across his face wearily. 

Today, he decided resolutely, had definitely not been worth the effort.

 

* * *

 

The last time Draco had seen Harry Potter had been at his sentencing hearing. The Aurors had wasted no time in rounding up all the living Death Eaters they could locate in the weeks following the Dark Lord’s defeat. Draco and his family had willingly surrendered when they’d come for them, storming the Manor not even a day after the Battle of Hogwarts. 

They had been easy targets. The Malfoys were hardly subtle in regards to their support of the Dark Lord. Malfoy Manor was _his_ base of operation, for Merlin’s sake, during that last year of wartime. Regardless of their reasons and motives and questionably forced cohersion, the Malfoys had been amongst the Dark Lord's innermost circle, and that sin alone demanded retribution.

Therefore, it was to no one’s surprise, least of all Draco’s own, when they had come for him and his family.

He had been woken from a restless sleep, long past midnight, to his head pounding mercilessly as the wards surrounding Malfoy Manor were attacked. Draco knew his parents had anticipated it too. He remembered his mother, still wearing the somber black ensemble she’d favoured during that last year of war, freshly starched and laundered. Around her neck and wrists lay her finest jewels. She had dressed with the expectation of company. 

And his father, with his eyes dead and skin ashen and face gaunt from months and months of immense stress and little sleep. He remembered his father- a shell of his former self- raising his wand and lowering the Manor’s wards willingly. Dropping his wand and raising his hands when the mob had burst inside to attack. Draco and his mother had followed his lead, lifting their arms in surrender- a final, desperate show of compliance.

Theirs had been amongst the most public of the wartime trials. The Malfoy family was one of the oldest and most notorious of all pure-bloods, and their crimes and support of the Dark Arts was common knowledge. The media coverage had been merciless. And when the trials ended, Draco doubted there were a witch or wizard alive who did not know and despise the Malfoy name. 

It’d been nearly as bad as the war, those weeks of trials. The interrogation had been relentless. Days and nights of being questioned under Veritaserum, deprived of sleep and water until his eyes burned and his lips cracked and bled. Shackled around his limbs and neck like an animal. Deprived of all basic dignity. Harassed and tormented until his sanity hung by mere shreds. 

And then, the sentencings. They had done Draco and his parents in one go, all the better for the media coverage. Shackled and lined them up, one after the other, and led them into the Wizengamot courtroom to read them their condemnations. 

The evidence against them was presented- substantial and inarguable. And then, it was the Defense’s turn to speak. And to Draco’s immense astonishment, it had been Harry Potter- boy wonder himself- who had rose and stood in front of the Wizengamot to speak on his behalf. 

Stone-faced, Potter testified to the court and argued in defense of Draco and his mother. Under oath, he addressed the jury and informed them of how Draco and Narcissa Malfoy had aided him during the war. 

He explained how Narcissa had lied to the Dark Lord’s face, and how her lie had allowed Potter safe passage back into Hogwarts. He explained how Draco had lied when Potter and his friends had been held captive at Malfoy Manor- how Draco’s silence had allowed them opportunity to escape. 

He argued that Draco had been coerced and pressured into his role in the war. How it was only under the threat of death to his family that Draco had agreed to kill Dumbledore. And how Potter had been there that night in the Astronomy Tower, invisible, and had seen Draco’s ultimate inability to commit murder. 

Potter spoke simple truths. He spoke of the small actions that Draco and his mother had taken to help him ultimately win the war. Not blatantly heroic deeds, but as Potter explained it, crucial all the same. And they were truths that would have gone otherwise unvoiced. They were truths which Draco had admitted to under interrogation, but no one had bothered to voice aloud in court. After all, what motive did anyone have to speak in his defense? 

Then again, what motive did Harry Potter have to speak in his defense? 

The Wizengamot had debated for hours and hours. And ultimately, the only Malfoy to receive a prison sentence had been Lucius- life in Azkaban for his wartime crimes. Draco wasn’t surprised. His father’s sins ran deep, and his crimes against the wizarding world were impossible to deny. For him, there was no possibility of salvation.

His mother was fully pardoned. Draco, though relieved, had anticipated this. Narcissa Malfoy had no Dark Mark, had never participated in the torture of Muggles, nor served the Dark Lord in any truly tangible way. She was the spouse of a Death Eater, and though generally despised, this was not reason enough to condemn her to Azkaban, especially not with the evidence Harry Potter presented in her favour.

Draco held his breath when they read his sentence. Had very nearly passed out upon hearing it. Mandatory surrendering of his wand and no use of any magic for one year. Strict monitoring and restrictive use of spells after that. A probationary hearing in six months. Routine visits with an appointed Ministry liaison to monitor his adherence to these restrictions. Voluntary surrendering of the Malfoy family fortune, the funds to be used as compensation for wartime victims.

No Azkaban. 

It was unprecedented. A Death Eater- one who still bore the Dark Mark- allowed to walk away, essentially free. Draco could hardly believe it himself. 

They'd had to practically drag him from the courtroom. His mind was numb, his limbs limp and uncoordinated. He’d seen Potter leave, shortly after they read his sentence. Their eyes had fleetingly met, Draco’s full of confusion and outrage and relief and desperation and above all, the burning question of why, why, _why?_

Potter had met his gaze evenly, blinked once, and looked away. Walked out the door without even a shrug of acknowledgement. Draco still dreamed of that day. Of that exact moment- of stoic green eyes and unanswered questions.

 

 


	2. it is at moments after i have dreamed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _it is at moments after i have dreamed_  
>  of the rare entertainment of your eyes,  
> when(being fool to fancy)i have deemed  
> with your peculiar mouth my heart made wise  
> -ee cummings

Draco awoke with a start, limbs tangled in his bed-sheets. The memory of the dream that’d woke him quickly slipped away, illusive and flighty, but he knew instinctively that it had been a bad one. 

Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, Draco cast a quick _Tempus_ and frowned at the displayed time. Past ten already. Draco never felt quite right when he slept in so late. Too much sleep left him foggy and irritated, more tired than if he’d forced himself to get up at a decent hour. Oftentimes though, the motivation to rise early eluded him. 

Draco rose from bed and hissed as his bare feet touched the frigid wood floor. He rummaged under his bed and pulled on a pair of discarded wool socks, casting a hasty Warming Charm on them. He sighed, pulling a jumper over his head as well. He would have to have another discussion with his landlord. Evidently, the heating still wasn’t functioning properly. 

Making his way downstairs, he paused to fuss briefly with the thermostat, swearing under his breath when he saw the flat’s displayed temperature. Cranking the heat dial up, Draco blew on his frozen fingers and went to start a fire in the sitting room’s hearth. Heating Charms could only warm one so much, after all. 

With the fire started, he put the kettle on and set about making a quick meal of toast with jam. His cupboards were looking rather barren, Draco thought to himself as he picked disinterestedly at his breakfast. He would have to make a shopping trip sometime soon. 

Taking a sip from his mug of tea, Draco frowned at the taste. The flavour never tasted quite right to him. He liked to think that he’d adjusted fairly well to his new, modest lifestyle, but good quality tea- the expensive, loose-leaf, imported type that he’d been raised on- was one thing he missed sorely.

Draco’s new life was filled with sacrifices, his preferred tea brand being, unfortunately, one of the lesser ones he’d had to make. That first year especially had been a difficult transition for him- hellish, in more ways that one. Stripped of his fortune and social standing, he had been forced to adapt to survive.

For a time after the trials, he had lived with his mother in Malfoy Manor. The Ministry seized the majority of the family fortune, leaving them with a pitiful sum- what remained of his mother’s dowry. This, they could not rightfully touch, as it was not technically Malfoy money. 

They hadn’t taken the Manor either. Had raided and ransacked it quite thoroughly, confiscating any actual and suspected Dark artifacts. But the house itself, Draco and his mother had been allowed to keep- a meager consolation prize. As it was explained to them, the Ministry had no use for damaged real estate, after all.

For several long months, Draco and his mother had lived in near total isolation, out of equal parts want and necessity. Howlers and death threats had arrived in excess during that time. People were outraged, positively livid with indignation over the trial’s outcome, with the fact that Draco- a _Death Eater_ \- had been allowed his freedom.

A menace to society. A threat to the safety of Muggles and wizards alike. Ought to have had his soul sucked out by Dementors. _Avada Kedavra_ was too good for the likes of him, he deserved to be tortured to death under _Cruciatus_ for his crimes. Draco recalled the letters well- he’d read every one of them, for a time, before he became rather numb to it all and took to burning them instead. 

The threats had prompted Draco and his mother to remain holed up in the Manor. It was a valid reason, but truthfully, an excuse for them both. Narcissa fell into a deep depression following the trials. The loss of her husband had affected her deeply and irrevocably, and she was no longer the bright, clever, doting mother whom Draco knew and loved so dearly. That first month or so, she hadn’t left her suite of rooms once. Draco’d had to beg her to bathe, to sleep, to eat _something._ She had practically wasted away to nothing. 

As time passed, Narcissa made an effort to pull herself together- had swept up some semblance of sanity and normalcy. She still lived in the Manor, with a small staff of devoted house-elves. She ate without prompting, smiled when appropriate, made polite small talk with Draco when he came round, even had a few close friends whom she allowed to visit on occasion. 

But she still hadn’t left the sanctuary of Malfoy Manor, even now, three years later. The few times Draco had tried to broach the topic, his mother grew pale and tight lipped, with a panicked look in her eyes, and promptly changed the subject. 

Draco remained at the Manor for three long months, until his mother had mostly recovered and the threat of potential assassination wasn’t so imminent. And then, he’d taken a paltry share of the remaining family fortune and ventured in search of his own abode. 

His mother had protested, of course. But Draco insisted he needed his own space- after all, he was an adult now, didn’t she realise? And they both needed to move on. They had to try and make something of their lives, otherwise what was it all for? 

Truthfully though, Draco couldn’t stand living in the Manor any longer. His childhood home had turned into a thing of nightmares. Memories of the war lingered throughout the house like ghosts. The cellars where the prisoners of war had been held captive. The ballroom where Aunt Bellatrix had tortured Hermione Granger. The dining room, where still stood the same table, the same fucking chair where _he_ had sat and preached to his disciples. 

There was no escape. No respite to be found _anywhere._ It was suffocating and utterly overwhelming. Draco was nearly crawling out of his skin by the time he worked up the courage to move out, and quite honestly, being killed by some bloody justice avenger would have been better than spending another minute in that damned house.

 

* * *

 

The rejection letter arrived a mere two days after his interview. They were prompt, at least, and had the decency to send a letter rather than make Draco wait in wonder indefinitely. 

The missive was blunt and to the point. Draco found it on the hearth of his fireplace upon waking that morning. Living in a Muggle flat, he couldn’t very well have owls arriving to deliver mail- there was a limit to the ignorance of his neighbours. Instead, he’d attached his fireplace to the Floo network, and elected to receive his post that way. 

Picking up the letter, Draco shook off some soot and broke its seal.

 

_To Mister Draco Malfoy,_

_We regret to inform you that you have not been selected for further consideration in regards to your recent application with the Department of Magical Trading Standards Body. We appreciate your interest in the position._

_Regards,_

_Madame Alice R. Olson_

_Secretary to the Department of MTSB_

 

Draco couldn’t even bring himself to feel upset. Crumpling the letter, he tossed the parchment back into the fireplace. 

He was no stranger to rejection. Ever since he’d finished his N.E.W.T.S, he had been in a near constant state of seeking and applying to jobs. This latest endeavor had been, admittedly, perhaps too far a stretch. A position within the Ministry was undoubtedly out of his league. Far too respectable for his current standing in society. 

It had only been at Pansy Parkinson’s firm insistence that he’d applied for the position to begin with. One of the only friends Draco still had correspondence with, Pansy worked as a Scribe within the Ministry. She’d managed to pull some strings and secure Draco the interview. Much as he appreciated the gesture, Draco knew it was futile. Bowtruckles would sooner fly before he was hired by the Ministry of Magic. Still, he supposed it hadn’t hurt anything but his pride to try. 

Running a hand through his hair, Draco sighed and set off to make his morning tea. This dance with rejection was getting rather old. Thus far, Draco had managed to sustain himself on odd jobs that didn’t require his name or his presence. Quite adept at Potions, he brewed some standard household potions in his flat and sold them at bargain price to a few distributors. He’d also written a few freelance articles- anonymously, of course- for several Potions journals and been paid a small sum for his writings. 

He got by. But the money wasn’t consistent, and it wasn’t much, and it certainly wouldn’t last forever. 

His mother tried to insist that Draco take some of the money the Ministry had left them. He had refused, aside from the small amount he’d initially borrowed to pay the security deposit on his flat. That money was rightfully his mother’s. And though Narcissa lived a fairly modest life now, her funds were sorely limited, and eventually, they too would run out. 

The only real solution was to get a job. And hard as he tried, Draco had failed miserably in this endeavor. The wartime trials had made his name notorious. No one in their right mind wanted to hire Draco Malfoy, former Death Eater. He would settle for nearly anything at this point. He’d even tried applying for several Muggle jobs, but had quickly realised that they all required papers and identifications he didn't have.

And so, the fruitless struggle continued. Draco no longer possessed any serious aspirations for his career- his childhood dream of becoming a Potions Master seemed laughable now. However, a salary, and thereby a job, was an unfortunate necessity.

 

* * *

 

Draco decided to go grocery shopping that afternoon. He found it best to keep busy at times like this, even if it was only with trivial tasks. Best to give his mind something to focus on other than the sorry state of affairs that was his life. 

He had fallen in the habit of taking Polyjuice when running errands in the wizarding world. It made things simpler- to avoid the stares and nasty remarks altogether. However, some of the ingredients were expensive and difficult to come by, and the potion itself was hell to brew, so Draco tried to limit when he used it. 

He’d have preferred to just wear a Glamour. Unfortunately, that charm was on the lengthy list of restricted spells which the Ministry still enforced upon Draco. They probably wouldn’t be very pleased to hear he’d been taking Polyjuice either, but it wasn’t _specifically_ prohibited, per se.

To avoid the issue altogether, he tried to shop in the Muggle world whenever possible. It was a refreshing change to walk through shops undisguised, without people treating him like the lowest of scum. It was also one of the reasons Draco had chosen to rent a Muggle flat. That, in addition to the fact that no one in polite wizarding society would agree to let him sign a lease. 

It had been tricky, finding a place that would allow him to rent without any sort of Muggle identification. His current landlord was a bit dodgy, and the flat itself was dingy and shabby. But he was allowed him to pay his rent in cash without any questions asked, and that was good enough for Draco. 

He decided to pop over to Tesco. He didn’t need anything wizard-specific, just food- and he didn’t much feel like disguising himself today anyway. He bundled up in his warmest coat and gloves- it was still unseasonably cold, for February- and departed his flat. 

Walking down the street, Draco pulled the collar of his coat up against the chill of winter wind. Glancing around, he turned into a vacant alley a few blocks from his flat, spun in place, and Apparated himself behind the dumpster of the nearest Tesco. 

Apparition was another thing the Ministry kept close tabs on. His travels were strictly limited to the UK- anything international was expressly prohibited, and the Ministry was quick to question him if any of his travels were deemed ‘suspicious’. Draco had learned his lesson the hard way when he’d Apparated to Sunderland, Norwich and Manchester, all in one day, to buy some region-specific potions ingredients. The authorities had come knocking on his door by nightfall, and his excursion bought him a night’s worth of Veritaserum-aided interrogation. He had planned his travels a bit more cautiously since.

Draco collected a trolley and made his way into the store. Supermarkets were one thing that Muggles had the right idea about. One store where you could buy toothpaste and bread and tea and socks, all in the same go. Wizarding shops were more isolated, specializing in one product apiece. It was ever so much more convenient to get all his shopping done in one trip. 

Meandering through the store, Draco filled his cart with some staples- milk, dry cereal and tinned beans. Cooking wasn’t something he was too skilled at, having had all his meals catered to since birth. He subsided mostly on canned foods and tea, in all honesty. His mother nagged him about it terribly, whenever he visited. Complained that he was too skinny and needed to eat properly. He tried, but really, he never had much of an appetite, and good food was luxury he couldn’t afford. 

Lost in thought, Draco tossed a few boxes of pasta into his trolley, rounded the corner, and promptly bowled into somebody. 

“Sorry,” he apologised, pulling back his cart and looking up. “Sorry, I-”

His voice cut off mid-sentence. For fuck sake. Standing across from him, with his own basket of groceries and a startled expression on his face stood none other than Harry Potter. 

Draco could practically feel the colour drain from his face. Speechless, he gripped the handle of his trolley until his knuckles turned white. Potter seemed to be in a similar mindset, for he stood there dumbly, mouth gaping open and closed like some sort of fish. 

“Sorry,” Draco managed to voice another apology, unsure of what else to do.

“Um,” Potter said, rather ineloquently. “Malfoy. You- you’re-” he gawked openly, looking Draco up and down in disbelief. “-wearing Muggle clothing.” 

Draco paused, glancing down at his trainers and jeans and worn wool coat, feeling suddenly exposed and very vulnerable. "Well, yes," he managed, not quite meeting the other man's eyes. "This is a Muggle store, after all."

“Yeah, it is.” It sounded more like a question than a statement. Draco could feel a flush begin to creep up the back of his neck as Potter continued to stare, now unabashedly examining the contents of his trolley. Tins of soup and beans, day-old bread and clearanced produce. Draco could have curled up and died right there, in the middle of Tesco. 

His entire face began to burn in humiliation. “Well, goodbye then,” he said hurriedly, hating the way his voice tremored. Draco turned his cart away, primal instinct to flee taking over. 

“I- Malfoy, wait a minute,” Potter said, and something in his tone made Draco give pause.

“Sorry, I- well, I didn’t mean to stare. Really, I hate it when people do it to me. I just… well, it’s just that you’re about the last person I’d expect to see _here."_ Potter waved his arm round the aisle in a rather manic gesture.

Draco’s brow furrowed. “I need to shop like anyone else, you realise,” he replied defensively.

“Well, yeah,” said Potter, frowning as though Draco were being purposefully obtuse. “But at _Tesco?"_

Draco shrugged. “Sometimes. It’s easier to avoid people here,” he admitted, feeling it somehow necessary to explain himself. To justify his presence if only to wipe that stupid, stunned look off Potter’s face. 

The other man merely nodded. “Yeah, that makes sense,” he replied, sounding so annoyingly understanding that it made Draco feel physically ill. 

An awkward silence followed. Potter scratched the back of his neck in obvious discomfort. “Um-” he stammered after a moment. “You hear back about that Ministry position yet?”

It was clearly an innocent question- an attempt at small talk to fill the silence, but Draco found himself bristling in annoyance all the same. He paused a moment longer than appropriate before responding. “No.”

Potter seemed to sense his discomfort and instantly dropped the subject. “Oh. Alright then.”

Draco managed to suppress a shudder. “Well, I really must be going. Loads to do, you see,” he said after a moment, desperate for some excuse to escape. 

“Uh, sure,” Potter replied, looking a bit bewildered. “See you around, I guess.” 

Draco inclined his head in acknowledgement. Turning away, he narrowly restraining himself from jogging down the aisle to rid himself of Potter.

Cutting his shopping trip short, Draco hurriedly paid for his groceries and Apparated directly home from a Tesco bathroom stall. Dumping his shopping bags haphazardly on the counter, he staggered to the sitting room and sunk into an armchair, not even bothering to remove his coat or shoes. Shivering from the unwelcome chill of his apartment, Draco raised his wand and cast a thoughtless _Incendio_ to light the fireplace.

Mind reeling, Draco allowed the flickering flames to lull him into a welcome stupor. By the time he gathered the will to move, the room had grown dark and cold once more, fire burnt down to mere embers.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for your comments, kudos and bookmarks, I appreciate each and every one of them! And so begins the slow (slow) burn ;)


	3. somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond_  
>  any experience, your eyes have their silence:  
> in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,  
> or which i cannot touch because they are too near  
> -ee cummings

Draco tried his best to visit his mother on a weekly basis. Aside from him, she didn't have much in the way of company, and he knew his visits greatly bolstered her spirits.

It was only out of deep love and commitment toward his mother that he convinced himself to make these trips. Returning willingly to Malfoy Manor was difficult, to say the least. Thankfully, they rarely ventured from the small, formal parlor where his mother served him tea. That room, at least, was fairly innocuous in regards to bad memories.

His mother was a changed woman from the war. Oftentimes, Draco entertained the thought that he wouldn't recognize her, were he not her own son.

Though still strikingly beautiful, stress had aged Narcissa beyond her years. Her blonde hair had turned silver near her temples, and instead of wearing it in the regal, complicated hairstyles she'd once favoured, she now kept it short and loose, the length barely brushing her shoulders. Her eyes were duller, her colour sallow, and her skin beginning to wrinkle and sag near her mouth and around her eyes.

She carried herself differently too- with her back slightly hunched, constantly curved in on herself in a subtly protective stance. She spoke in a hushed voice, so different from the outspoken, boisterous woman she'd once been. It disconcerted Draco greatly, and he had to try hard to remind himself that the war had changed them both.

He Flooed over to visit her that Sunday, three days after his fateful encounter with Potter in Tesco. Sunday was generally their agreed upon day of visitation. It was rather a scheduled affair by now. Around ten or so, Draco would Floo to the Manor's parlor and was greeted by a member of the house-elf staff. Narcissa would shortly join him, dressed in one of her nicer, albeit outdated gowns.

She would serve tea and sandwiches, offer him cream and sugar- though she knew well enough that he took neither. Draco would politely decline, and they would proceed to work their way through two cups apiece- no more or less- whilst making amicable small talk. Their conversation tended to focus on innocent topics that mostly centered around Draco. His eating habits. His job search. Was he sleeping well, how was his health, was he keeping warm in that horrid Muggle flat?

His mother could be overbearing, to put it mildly, but Draco knew she meant well. And it was easier for her to focus on his wellbeing rather than her own. Draco could allot her that one small comfort.

He would nod when appropriate and reassure her that, yes, he was eating enough. And no, he wasn't too thin, she knew he had a slight frame. And really, his flat was perfectly large enough, it was only him who lived there after all.

Today, their talk focused largely on Draco's employment prospects, or lack thereof. Understandably, it wasn't his favourite topic of conversation. He struggled to maintain an attentive expression as his mother spoke.

"And really, Draco. You should have told me about your application with the Ministry. I do like to keep informed of your affairs."

Draco looked up from his teacup, startled. "How did you...?"

Narcissa favoured Draco with a mollifying smile. "Please, Darling. You know I have my sources. Miss Parkinson is hardly what one might call tight-lipped."

Draco sighed. Damn Pansy and her tendency toward gossip. He generally didn't keep things from his mother, but this particular rejection would've been something he'd prefer to deal with privately.

Sensing his discontent, Narcissa frowned. "I understand that I am merely your mother, Draco, but I do wish you'd feel comfortable speaking with me of matters such as these."

She was unfairly talented at making him feel guilty. "I apologise," Draco contented, lowering his cup to the table. "I didn't want to raise your hopes. I knew there was little chance of the matter leading anywhere."

Narcissa stared, her gaze unwavering. "You were not offered the position," she concluded after a moment, as astute as ever, expression closely guarded.

Draco shook his head. "No."

Narcissa began to blink rapidly. For a moment, Draco was concerned she'd burst into tears. However, in the next second, her face grew tightly composed, though her blue eyes blazed with frightful intensity. "Those fools," she spat indignantly.

Draco visibly tensed at the uncharacteristic passion in her voice. Looking rather pale, she sunk back in her seat, shaking her head back and forth disparagingly.

"I don't understand, Darling. You are so talented, and clever- you would have been so well suited to the job. I simply cannot comprehend why it has been so difficult for you to find employment."

Draco's stomach twisted horribly. "I think you know the reason, Mother," he murmured softly, gripping his left forearm unconsciously.

Narcissa's gaze flickered between his face and arm, eyes growing wide with familiar panic.

"Have I told you about the redecorating I've done in the library? It's not much, I'm afraid, as resources are rather limited. But I did try out this fetching new spell that changes wallpaper designs."

Draco's hand spasmed on his forearm. His mother had a tendency to change the topic abruptly when conversation grew too serious for her comfort. Picking up his forgotten teacup from the table, he took a sip, steadying his trembling hand.

"No, Mother, you hadn't mentioned. You'll have to show me after tea." Draco could play pretend too, after all.

 

* * *

 

Draco spent the next week scouring the employment adverts of the Daily Prophet for potential job prospects. He occupied his days alternating between sending letters inquiring about positions and working on several potions he had brewing in the far corner of his cramped kitchen.

One of the Potions shops he distributed to had requested a large order of Pepper-up- a big seller during the winter months. Not much fun to brew in large quantities, however. The potion's sharp, spicy fumes permeated throughout his tiny flat, making his eyes continuously water and burn. At least the payout should be fairly substantial.

It was Monday evening when Draco's world came crashing down around him. He had just finished brewing another batch of Pepper-up, and was in the process of bottling the draught when a tapping on his kitchen window startled him from his work.

Frowning, Draco set down the vial of potion he'd been labeling and glanced toward his curtained window in confusion. Another 'tap tap' sounded from behind the glass, followed by an incessant _cooing._

Eyes widening, Draco dashed toward the window, stubbing his toe on his cauldron in the process. Swearing, he flung open the drapes, jaw dropping when he noted that, yes indeed, that was an owl tapping on his window. An owl, with a letter tied round its foot, in his very Muggle neighbourhood.

Throwing open the window in a panic, he shooed the owl inside and slammed the window shut behind it. Indignant at being treated so roughly, the tawny owl screeched loudly and began pecking Draco on the back of his head.

"Ouch! Stop, that hurts!" Draco hissed, hunching and covering his head protectively.

Letting out an apologetic sort of squawk, the owl ruffled its feathers and presented its foot to Draco, prompting him to untie the letter.

Stunned, he wordlessly took the letter, fetching the owl a dish of water when it hovered pointedly near his sink. Dropping into a kitchen chair, Draco fingered the parchment carefully, wondering who in Merlin's name had been _stupid_ enough to send an owl to his flat. Hopefully none of his neighbours had noticed, or he had a hell of a lot of explaining to do to the Ministry.

Running a hand through his hair, Draco broke the seal on the letter and unfolded it.

 

 

_Malfoy,_

_Hope the owl found you alright. It's a Ministry bird- they're not the cleverest, generally, but they usually get the job done._

_I suppose you're wondering why I'm writing you. I'm kind of wondering that myself, if I'm being honest, but this seems like the right thing to do._

_I know you're looking for a job. I might have a lead on one, if you're interested._

_Write back if you are. The bird knows where to find me._

_-Harry Potter_

 

 

Draco ran a trembling finger across the signature, heart pounding in his chest.

No. _No._ Harry Potter had _not_ just sent him a letter offering to help him find a job. Mind racing, Draco shooed the owl when it flew near his head, squawking unhelpfully.

"No- get away! I'm not writing a response for you!"

The owl landed on the back of the chair across from him, amber eyes staring unblinkingly.

"Stop _looking_ at me like that! The letter's probably not even from him. This is some sort of terrible practical joke, right?"

The owl hooted in response, cocking its head.

"Look at me. Having a conversation with a bloody owl. Clearly, I've lost my mind," Draco muttered to himself. Before he could think better of the idea, he tore the letter in two and crumpled the pieces in his hand. Across the room, the bird let out a horrible keening sound.

 _"Enough,"_ Draco said firmly, standing and throwing the remnants of the letter in his rubbish bin. Sitting down again at the table, he buried his head in his hands.

 _Seemed like the right thing to do. Write back if he was interested._ Draco shuddered. Even if it were legitimate, what did Potter think he was playing at, sending him that sort of letter? No details or anything. Just a cryptic message and a humiliating offer.

Clenching his fists, Draco resolved to banish the matter from his mind entirely. Exhaling shakily, he glanced over at the owl, who still sat on the back of the chair watching him cautiously.

"Well, you'll have to stay until nightfall. I can't risk the neighbours seeing me let you out. I was about to make dinner. Do you like pasta?"

The owl hooted once in reply.

 

* * *

 

The week passed without further incident. Draco didn't receive a second message from Potter, or Imposter-Potter, or whoever the hell had sent him the first letter- for that, he was grateful.

He ended his week by going out for drinks with Pansy. She'd been nagging him endlessly for weeks to get together, and finally, Draco had relented.

Pansy wasn't that bad, really. One of his oldest (and only) friends, she'd matured a great deal since their childhood. Though still stubborn and mouthy and moody as a rule, Pansy had her redeeming qualities. She was fiercely protective, a loyal friend, and had a fantastic sense of humour. And she put up with him, all issues aside, and for that, Draco had a special place in his heart reserved for her.

She'd done quite well for herself after Hogwarts. Though she came from a family of Death Eaters, Pansy had never taken the Dark Mark herself, and therefore, had been able to wrestle herself into a respectable position in society. She had a credible if mundane job at the Ministry, a string of steady boyfriends, and a sharp wit that served her well.

They met at a local, Muggle pub in Central London that Friday night. Pansy accommodated Draco's penchant toward Muggle establishments without question- another reason he kept her around.

Moaning about her week at work, Pansy took a sip from her glass of wine.

"And then- you'll never believe it, Draco. Olive had the gall to blame _me_ for the missing reports! That bloody witch- I mean, bitch-" Pansy winced and snuck a glance at the Muggles seated around her. "She'll get what's coming to her sooner or later."

Draco nodded in unenthused agreement, only half listening to Pansy's tirade. Taking a long sip of his Vodka Tonic, he winced as the drink burned going down. Muggle alcohol always tasted so much stronger to him than the wizarding types. Finishing his glass in two long swigs, he caught the barkeeper's attention and gestured for another drink.

Pansy raised one carefully groomed eyebrow. "That'll be your fourth tonight. Are you aiming to blackout for a reason?"

Already tipsy, Draco grinned wryly in response. "Oh, my dear Pansy. No reason other than to forget about my sorry life, I assure you."

Pansy scoffed and shook her head, taking a measured sip of her own drink. "Fine, but I'm not Levitating- I mean, dragging- your sorry ass home tonight. Shite." She swore under her breath at her misspeak and Draco had to restrain himself from laughing. Pansy clearly wasn't used to watching her tongue around Muggles like he was.

He nodded his thanks to the barkeeper when the woman set another drink in front of him. "Cheers," he lifted his glass toward Pansy before knocking it down in one go.

Leaning back in his seat, Draco let his mind wander aimlessly as he listened to Pansy complain about work, her latest boyfriend, work, her mother, and work again.

Head pleasantly buzzing, he was internally debating whether or not to go for round five of drinks when Pansy began tapping him on the shoulder incessantly.

"Draco. _Draco!_ Look, over by the door! Is that who I think it is?"

More than a little tipsy now, Draco took a moment to respond before swiveling his head around. When he saw who stood near the pub's entrance, Draco smiled, and all at once began to giggle hysterically.

"What is _wrong_ with you?" Pansy hissed, gaping as Draco covered his mouth with both hands, trying unsuccessfully to stifle his increasingly manic laughter. "It's hardly _funny!"_

Draco snorted, laughing so hard that tears began to leak from his eyes. "Merlin, Pansy. Fuck sake. It's fucking _hilarious!_ Oh, the universe must _hate_ me!"

Pansy's eyebrows had nearly risen past her forehead by this point, and she stared at Draco as if he ought to be committed. And she was probably right. Still snickering under his breath, he dropped his forehead against the tabletop with a loud 'thunk'.

"Um-"

Draco turned his head, still resting his feverish cheek against the table as he glanced upwards.

Harry Potter stood next to Pansy, staring at Draco as though he had two heads.

"Alright there, Malfoy?" Potter asked cautiously. Through his drunken haze, Draco noted that the majority of the bar's patrons appeared to be staring at him, having clearly witnessed his attempt at a nervous breakdown.

He answered with a low moan, rolling his face back and forth against the tabletop.

Pansy frowned concernedly. "Okay, no more alcohol for you." Reaching across the table, she gingerly scooted his glass out of reach.

Still hovering nearby, Potter cleared his throat. "How have you been, Parkinson? Don't think I've seen you since school."

Pansy stiffened, clearly taken aback by the question. "No, I don't suppose you have," she answered carefully. "I've been well, thank you. I actually work as a Scribe at the Ministry. I've seen you around, once or twice, but I don't think you noticed me."

Potter scratched the back of his neck, looking strangely apologetic. "Ah- no, I hadn't. Sorry about that."

Voice muffled by the table, Draco let out another pained groan.

Pansy patted the back of his head endearingly. "It's no matter. I certainly didn't expect you to." She gave Potter a slightly patronizing smile. "What brings you to this fine establishment tonight?"

Potter continued to stare at Draco, unblinking. "I'm meeting some mates to watch a rugby match. Er- is he going to be alright?"

All at once, Draco pushed himself upright and looked Potter directly in the face, the alcohol making him brazen and careless.

"That's three times, Potter!" Draco exclaimed, tongue thick in his mouth.

The other man's eyes went wide with surprise. "I- three times?"

Draco nodded vigorously. _"Three!_ Three times in half as many weeks that I've ran into _you,_ after three years of _nothing!"_

Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew that he was being unreasonably accusatory, but in the moment, he didn't much care. Pansy was looking rapidly back and forth between him and Potter with something akin to glee in her eyes.

"Well, yes, I suppose that's right," Potter replied, his voice pacifying.

Draco hiccuped. "Three times," he repeated, nodding solemnly. "And a letter. Though that doesn't really count, since I didn't see you. Just a ruddy piece of parchment."

"Oooh, a letter, Draco?" Pansy leaned forward in her seat, looking enthralled. "Do tell."

Potter rubbed the back of his neck uncomfortably. "Ah. I didn't realise you'd gotten that. I thought the owl must have got lost. You never replied."

"So it _was_ you!" Draco shouted abruptly, pointing an accusing finger in Potter's face.

At the same time, Pansy grabbed his shoulders, shaking him roughly back and forth. "Focus, Draco! The _letter!_ Tell me, what did it say?"

Potter glanced back and forth between the two of them, looking rather lost for words. Finally, he chose to address Draco. "Of course it was me. How many Harry Potters do you know?"

Draco rubbed his eyes, mentally willing the room to stop spinning. "Dunno. Maybe it wasn't from you after all. Maybe you're lying! Maybe you're an imposter! I thought the letter might be a fake, after all, you know."

"Uh, no, I didn't know," Potter replied, seeming confused with the direction their conversation had taken.

"You do," Draco insisted, eyes wide. "And owls, you know. I haven't got one. You shouldn't send me owls. Bad, bad idea, Potter. That's not allowed. Owls are bad news. The Ministry won't be happy with you at all."

He began to giggle uncontrollably once more. Potter looked utterly bewildered, and that made Draco laugh even harder.

Pansy had given up trying to get him to speak about the letter. She downed the remainder of her wine with a grimace. "Okay, time to go, Draco. I know I swore I wouldn't drag you home, but you've clearly left me with no choice."

Draco groaned loudly. "But I don't wanna to go home yet, Pans. I want to stay here with Potter!"

Across the table, the other man raised an eyebrow but didn't comment. Pansy chuckled darkly. "I'm going to remind you of that when you're sober," she promised. Rising from her seat, she walked over to Draco and helped him stand, slinging his arm around her shoulder when he listed unsteadily to the side.

"Go ahead, see if I care," he retorted childishly.

"Nice seeing you, Potter." Pansy waved with her free hand and began to drag a reluctant Draco toward the door of the pub.

Potter had been watching their exchange silently until this point. "Er- wait a minute," he said, stepping in front of Pansy to prevent their departure.

Draco allowed his head to loll back onto Pansy's shoulder. "Whasit now?" he slurred unintelligibly.

Potter frowned, face calculating. "I'd still like to speak with you, regarding the contents of that letter. But you're hardly in the right state of mind right now."

"State of mind, shhhmate of mind." Draco giggled at his own cleverness.

"Exactly," said Potter.

Pansy rolled her eyes. "Fun as this has been, we really must be going."

"Well," said Potter carefully. "If you change your mind, I often grab lunch at the Leaky Cauldron on workdays. I'll be there this coming Monday, at noon, if you want to talk. That is, assuming you remember this conversation come morning."

"Oh, don't you worry about that." Pansy grinned evilly, adjusting Draco's arm over her shoulder. "I'll make sure he doesn't forget a single detail about this _thoroughly_ entertaining night."

Draco stroked Pansy's face with the back of his hand. "Your skin is very smooth," he informed her matter of factly.

"Thanks, I think." Pansy frowned, knocking his hand from her cheek. "Alright, one foot in front of the other, Draco. That's right."

Together, the pair hobbled out of the pub, leaving a speechless Harry Potter in their wake.

"Well, that was interesting, to say the least," Pansy muttered to herself as they made their way down the street, grunting as Draco lurched suddenly forward toward a snowbank. "Easy, Draco. I'm rather attached to the arm you're trying to pull off."

"Pansy, where'd Potter go?" Draco whined forlornly, tugging at her shirt sleeve.

Pansy shook her head. "You're hopeless," she informed him in a fond voice. "Now come on, let's get you home and in bed before you get too weepy. I don't think I can stomach that caliber of a breakdown tonight."

Head spinning, Draco gazed up at the black, starless sky and felt as though the world were trying to swallow him whole.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Drunk Draco is my aesthetic. And Pansy is such a fun character to write :) I hope you all enjoyed this chapter! Thank you to everyone who has commented/bookmarked/left kudos on this story so far! I appreciate each and every one of you! My writing is fueled by caffeine, kudos and comments, so if you take the time to leave one, I'd be so grateful ;)


	4. i will wade out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _i will wade out_  
>  till my thighs are steeped in burning flowers  
> I will take the sun in my mouth  
> and leap into the ripe air  
> -ee cummings

Draco woke the next morning feeling as though a Hippogriff were tap dancing in his head. Moaning, he rolled over in bed and rubbed his face, only to stop when the action made bright starbursts dance in front of his eyes.

Panting heavily, he mustered the strength to sit upright, regretting it instantly when the room began to spin around him.

Swallowing against quickly rising nausea, he grabbed his wand from the bedside table and cast a Hydrating Charm on himself, shuddering in relief as his headache began to dissipate and his body aches eased.

The nausea, however, remained. Covering his mouth, Draco shot upright from bed. He raised his wand to summon an Anti-Nausea Potion from his stores when he noticed a small bottle sitting on his nightstand.

Oh, Merlin bless Pansy and her foresight. Hurriedly uncorking the vial, Draco downed the potion in one swallow, breathing easier as the urge to vomit receded.

"You look a sight."

He glanced over at the voice. Pansy leaned against the door-frame of his bedroom dressed in fresh clothes, a full face of makeup, without a hair out of place.

Draco sank down to sit on the edge of his bed. "What are you still doing here?" he asked, wincing at the way his dry gums stuck together.

Pansy conjured a glass of water and handed it to him wordlessly. "Thanks," he muttered, taking a long drink.

She nodded once and sat back against his nightstand. "I spent the night on your sofa. You're welcome, by the way. I had to Side-Along you home, as you were in no fit state to Apparate yourself."

Draco waved his hand in a vague gesture of gratitude.

Pansy watched him closely for another minute before speaking. "So?"

He finished the glass of water in one long swallow. "So what?" he retorted, brushing a limp clump of hair from his forehead in disgust.

Pansy raised her eyebrows. "How much do you remember from last night?"

"Bits and pieces," Draco admitted. "A pub, lots of drinks. Too many drinks," he corrected. "And… did I dream that bit about Harry Potter?"

A slow grin spread across Pansy's face. "Which bit?"

"You must be joking. He was actually there?"

"Oh yes," Pansy replied cheerfully. "In the flesh. Speaking of, he's gotten rather fit since Hogwarts, wouldn't you agree?"

Draco groaned and rubbed a hand across his face wearily. "I'm too hungover for this conversation. Just tell me, how much a fool did I make of myself?"

Pansy looked all too delighted at the question. "Oh, Draco. You'll regret asking that."

 

* * *

 

Draco was absolutely mortified. Merlin, he would never drink again. He very much doubted he'd be able to look Pansy straight in the face for months to come.

She had spared no detail in filling the gaps in his memory from the night prior. Draco could scarcely believe he had run into Potter _again,_ let alone when he was so thoroughly plastered. And the things he'd _said_ to the man; just thinking about it made Draco cringe with embarrassment.

And then, there was Potter's bizarre invitation to meet for lunch the following week. As if they were old chums or something. It was all too much for Draco. He'd have lived in a state of oblivious denial over the whole situation had it not been for Pansy and her relentless badgering.

"Tell me about the letter, Draco," she whined as he physically drug her toward the door of his flat. "What are you meeting with Potter for? Why have you been in contact with him? Oh, for the love of Merlin, _just tell me already!"_

"Bugger off," Draco replied, feeling only a bit guilty with himself as he slammed the door in Pansy's astonished face.

Not even ten minutes later, Pansy was fire-calling him. Unsurprised, Draco looked up from the sofa where he'd been nursing his hangover with a mug of tea.

 _"DRACO MALFOY!"_ Pansy's floating face screamed from the fireplace. "Is that _really_ the thanks I get for taking care of your drunken arse last night?! You know I won't relent! You're better off just telling me outright what's going on!"

Draco sunk further into the couch, head beginning to pound from all the shouting. "Pans, please," he groaned, rubbing his temples in an attempt to ward off his impending migraine. "My head hurts."

"Oh, don't even," Pansy growled, teeth bared dangerously. "I simply _have_ to know! Does Potter have something on you? Does it have to do with the war? _Oh!_ Or is it something else entirely? Have you been meeting in secret all these years? Are you having a sordid affair? You always did have an unhealthy obsession with the man. Tell me all the dirty details!"

"Stop," Draco pleaded, chucking a throw pillow at Pansy's face, only to cast a hasty _Aguamenti_ as the pillow burst into flames. "Oh- damn it all-"

Pansy eyed the singed pillow with delight. "Serves you right. Oh, come on, Draco. I'll fire-call all hours of the day. I'll send Howlers. I'll show up at your doorstep in the middle of the night. I'll tell your _mother._ You know I will."

And Draco knew all too well that she meant it. "Merlin, _fine,_ I'll tell you," he relented with a defeated sigh.

Pansy grinned with smug satisfaction. "All too right you will," she informed him. "Now, move aside. I'm coming back through. I think my makeup's begun to melt to my face."

 

* * *

 

Draco was utterly exhausted by the time Monday came round. Between his own muddled thoughts and Pansy's relentless tormenting- "Draco, you simply must meet with Potter!", "I can't believe you'd consider throwing away such an opportunity- you put Slytherin to shame.", "Oh, do it for me if nothing else- or I'll never forgive you!"- he had hardly slept a wink.

Blinking sleepily at his bowl of porridge, Draco barely flinched as a familiar Patronus burst into his kitchen.

 

_Draco, you have to meet with Potter today. I know you. You'll forever wonder if you don't._

 

Pansy's voice spoke from the fox's mouth, her message cutting and brief. Abruptly, the Patronus disapparated in a puff of silver fog.

Stomach churning, Draco banished his uneaten breakfast. Loath as he was to admit it, he knew Pansy was correct in her assumption. Draco had a tendency to live in the past. He would carry the 'what-if' of this situation to his grave if he didn't meet with Potter. And really, he had a lifetime's worth of regrets already.

Rising from the kitchen table, Draco exhaled shakily and straightened his jumper, wondering exactly what one wore to meet their arch-nemesis-turned-acquaintance for a casual lunch.

 

* * *

 

He decided to use Polyjuice for the meeting. He would surely turn heads without a disguise. Draco Malfoy meeting with Harry Potter? The Prophet would have an absolute field day. Neither he nor Potter needed the additional attention.

Draco chose a Muggle man's hair he'd collected that past summer at a local park. He only used Muggle hair in his Polyjuice- less chance of being recognized that way. He had several dozen vials of individual hairs- neatly labeled with gender, date, and location- all tucked away in a shoe-box in the back of a kitchen cabinet. It was a rather grotesque collection, Draco had to admit, but quite the useful one.

He studied his new face in his bathroom mirror. Mid to late twenties, a square jawline, dark brown eyes, and a broad nose that suited the face well. Curly, flaming red hair. Draco tried unsuccessfully to flatten it against his head. Well, at least if anyone saw him with Potter, they'd just assume he was meeting with some distant Weasley cousin.

Honestly, Draco half wondered if Potter would even show up today. He still wasn't sure what the man had to gain from arranging this meeting, or what his true intentions were. Stomach churning, Draco glanced at his wristwatch- five to noon. He fussed with the unruly hair for a minute longer before conceding defeat.

Trying unsuccessfully to calm his racing heart, Draco spun once in his cramped bathroom and Apparated himself outside the Leaky Cauldron.

 

* * *

 

Oh, bloody fucking hell. Draco's stomach sank in a strange mixture of apprehension and relief. There was Harry Potter- sitting alone in a booth in the far corner of the Leaky Cauldron- tucking into a large sandwich and a plate of chips.

"Looking for a table, Sir? Or can I tempt you with a mid-day pint of ale? Half price!"

"Um- no-" Draco turned, his own voice sounding deep and foreign to him. "Thanks," he addressed the chipper bartender with a forced smile. "But I'm waiting for someone."

Draco waited until the man's attention was elsewhere and then hurriedly made his way to the back of the pub, sliding into the booth across from Potter before someone else could notice him.

Potter looked up from his meal, green eyes widening with surprise. "Er-" Potter said, lowering his sandwich to his plate with a small smile. "Ta, mate, but I'm already meeting someone for lunch."

Draco felt his face flush at the flirtatious tone of the man's voice. "Potter, it's _me,"_ he stated pointedly, gripping the edge of the table in marked discomfort.

Potter's jaw dropped. _"Malfoy?"_

"Shh!" Draco hissed, glancing surreptitiously around their table. "Yes! Keep your voice down, will you? I hardly want the entire pub knowing!"

The other man looked Draco up and down carefully. "Glamour?"

"Polyjuice," Draco answered shortly. "And I haven't brought more, so let's cut to the chase before I change back, shall we?"

Still looking rather bemused, Potter frowned heavily. "There really wasn't any need to disguise yourself. I hardly care who sees us together."

"Well, perhaps _I care,_ Potter. I hardly need any more bad publicity."

The other man shrugged and popped a chip in his mouth. "Did you want to order food, then?"

Just looking at Potter's meal made Draco feel nauseous. Nerves and food never mixed well for him. "I'll pass."

"Suit yourself," Potter said easily, taking a large bite of sandwich. "Now, 'cutting to the chase'. I know for a fact that you didn't get offered that Ministry position."

He said this candidly, without any hint of hostility, but Draco found his defenses flaring all the same. "So what?" he replied tightly, crossing his arms over his chest.

Potter swallowed. "So, I know you've been searching for a job and haven't had much luck. Like I said in my letter, I might be able to help in that department."

Draco stiffened. "And why would you want to help me? We're hardly on friendly terms."

"No. But we could be, I think."

Draco raised an incredulous eyebrow at that. "Oh?"

Potter shrugged. "We're both adults, Malfoy. The war was a long time ago. I don't know about you, but I try not to make a habit of holding grudges anymore. If there's one thing the war taught me, it's that life's too short for that sort of thing. Besides," he added, favouring Draco with another one of those keenly analyzing looks that made his skin crawl. "You've changed."

Draco visibly tensed. "No- I meant it as a complement," Potter explained hurriedly before he could comment. "I like to think that I'm fairly good at reading people. And I've been told more than once that I have good instincts. You've changed- for the better, I think."

Clenching and unclenching his fists, Draco struggled to calm the sea of emotions raging through him. "If this is some sort of misguided attempt at pity-"

"No," Potter interrupted hastily. "No, it's not. I swear. It's like I said in my letter. It's just the right thing to do."

Draco frowned skeptically. "You really have some sort of do-good complex, don't you?"

To his astonishment, Potter laughed loudly, eyes crinkling with genuine amusement. "You sound like Hermione. She says I have a 'saving people' thing."

"Granger's right about that," Draco admitted grudgingly. "Fine then, Potter. Out with it. What's your grand scheme to land me a job?"

The other man paused for a long moment, tilting his head at Draco in careful consideration. "Promise you'll hear me out, at least?"

"Merlin, don't sound so dismal about it. What sort of job did you have in mind, then? Curse Tester? Secretary to Dolores Umbridge? Must be bad, by the sound of your voice."

"No," Potter replied hesitantly. "More like, Auror Trainee."

Draco froze in place, mind absolutely reeling. "You're having me on," he managed to reply after a long moment, trying hard to keep his voice from shaking. "This is all some sort of joke to you."

"Oh, Malfoy, no- it's really not."

Draco shook his head, something inside his chest clenching horribly. "I should have known. This was a mistake." He went to rise from his seat, only to find his ascent halted by a firm hand to his shoulder.

"No. Sit down, Malfoy. Please, just hear me out. I promise it's not a trick."

The earnestness of Potter's voice made Draco give pause. Time stood still for a moment and he was only brought back to reality by a gentle squeeze of the hand on his shoulder.

"Please?" Potter repeated, face stoic and voice dead serious.

Draco gave a curt nod, sinking slowly back into his seat before he could change his mind.

Potter exhaled heavily and removed his hand from Draco's shoulder. "Good. Right." He frowned, seemingly uncertain of how to continue. "Well. It's like this. Like I said- I have good instincts. And as much as you may try to insist otherwise, I think you'd make a bloody good Auror."

Draco audibly snorted and Potter shot him a flustered look. "Stop it. This is difficult enough as is."

"Your fault," Draco muttered, averting his gaze and shifting uncomfortably in his seat.

 _"Anyway._ I meant what I said. You've changed. You didn't provoke Ron, that day at the Ministry, even when he said those horrible things to you. You wear Muggle clothing, and shop in Muggle stores. The old Draco Malfoy wouldn't have been caught _dead_ doing either of those things. And you're not all uptight and posh like you used to be. You're easygoing enough now to get drunk and make a fool of yourself in public, at least-"

Draco flushed at that. Potter chuckled good naturedly before continuing. "-my point being; you seem like a decent sort of bloke, Malfoy."

Draco shook his head in stunned disbelief, stuck somewhere between wanting to scream and laugh over the absolute absurdity of this situation. "Decent bloke doesn't equate to decent Auror, Potter! In case you've forgotten, I was a _Death Eater!_ I served the Dark Lord himself! I hardly think anyone in their right mind would hire _me_ as an Auror!"

To his credit, Potter didn't even flinch at Draco's tirade. Taking a bite of his forgotten sandwich, he shrugged nonchalantly. "Key word being 'was'. You _were_ a Death Eater. But you're not, anymore."

"Was- were- the particulars don't _matter,"_ Draco breathed incredulously, astonished at how incredibly casual Potter was being about this whole situation. "I have the bloody Dark Mark! I hardly have the credentials to become an Auror!"

"You've taken your N.E.W.T.S?"

"I- what?" Draco paused, genuinely confused. "Well, yes-"

"Got passing grades in Defense and Charms?"

"Technically, yes. But I-"

"Then you're qualified to apply. There aren't many requirements, in all honesty. The Ministry was rather desperate for Aurors, after the war. Too many killed in action, you see. And not many people have been keen to apply because of it."

"That doesn't change the fact-"

"Yes," Potter interrupted, waving a hand dismissively. "The whole 'Dark Mark' and 'Death Eater' argument. So you've mentioned. That's where I come into play."

Draco laughed shakily, feeling suddenly lightheaded. "You?"

"Well, yes. I am, after all, Harry Potter." The man grinned flippantly. "There aren't many benefits to it, but my influence is one of them. I'm in my second year of the training program. If I put in a good word for you, I'm sure you'll be accepted. Hell, I could even force them, if I really wanted to."

"But you wouldn't," Draco pointed out, still feeling rather numb.

"Well, no, probably not," Potter admitted. "I don't like to play that card if I can avoid it. But I know the Head of the training program quite well. She trusts my judgement. I'm certain if I explain my reasoning, she'll listen."

Draco shook his head. "I-"

"Just think about it," the other man interrupted before he could speak. "You don't need to agree- not right now. There's no rush. Just consider it?"

Speechless, Draco merely stared.

Potter seemed to interpret his silence as agreement. "Well, alright then." He smiled, patting Draco on the shoulder good naturedly. "It's settled. Ah- were you really serious about not wanting people here to recognise you?"

Draco nodded mutely.

"You best head out then. I think your potion's begun to wear off. Unless the tips of this bloke's hair naturally turn to blonde?"

Alarmed, Draco grasped a lock of hair and pulled it straight. Sure enough, his hair was slowly changing gradient from red to yellow.

Standing abruptly, Draco turned his face toward the ground and pulled his traveling cloak tight around his body. Nearly tripping over a bench in his haste to exit the pub, Draco heard Potter laugh and call out from behind him.

"I'll be seeing you, then! Think about my offer!"

Draco shuddered, turning to Apparate before he'd even exited the pub. Just in time too; as soon as he appeared in his flat's sitting room, Draco felt a familiar, painful shift as his body morphed back to normal.

Sinking bonelessly onto the floor, Draco noted with detached interest that his hands were tremoring uncontrollably.

"Fuck me," he murmured to himself. Harry Potter would be the death of him yet.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Ahh, thank you so much to everyone who has reviewed/left kudos on this story! I am so pleased with the response it has received so far :) If you take the time to leave a comment especially, I sincerely thank you! Your lovely encouragements and critiques are what encourage me to keep writing! I hope you all enjoyed this chapter. :)


	5. a connotation of infinity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _a connotation of infinity_  
>  sharpens the temporal splendor of this night  
> when souls which have forgot frivolity  
> in lowliness, noting the fatal flight  
> of worlds whereto this earth’s a hurled dream  
> -ee cummings

Draco followed a rather mundane routine most days. Wake up, lay brooding in bed for another hour or so, eat when deemed socially appropriate, brew potions in his cramped kitchen quarters, bathe, sleep again, and repeat indefinitely. Living as such, the days tended to blur together into one long haze.

Occasionally, the cycle broke. When he visited his mother, or went out with Pansy, or worked up the motivation to leave his flat for other various necessities. Even so, Draco found he often forgot what day of the week it was, so monotonous was his life.

Recently, however, thoughts of Harry Potter had utterly consumed him, shattering his carefully constructed routine. Nearly two weeks had passed since their meeting at the Leaky Cauldron, and Draco found the encounter was all he could think about. 

Potter’s last words to him kept repeating in his mind- a condemnation of sorts. _Think about my offer._ And think about it he did. He thought about it in the shower. While attempting to read the newspaper. While preparing dinner. He even dreamed about it, much to his dismay. He was about ready to _Obliviate_ himself if only to restore some semblance of sanity. 

He could scarcely believe Potter’s audacity. The suggestion that Draco become an _Auror._ It was laughable. Positively ludicrous. The very idea made him feel physically ill. 

Even more unsettling was how sincere Potter had seemed during their meeting. Either the man was a hell of an actor, or he was truly earnest with his desire to help. In all honesty, Draco wasn’t sure which option frightened him more.

Two weeks passed, and he made no attempts to contact Potter. Even if the man was serious, the sheer impossibility of his suggestion was enough to dissuade Draco. If the Ministry wouldn’t even hire him on as an assistant, there was no chance in hell they would train him as an Auror. A former Death Eater turned Dark wizard catcher? It was an insurmountable contradiction. And even if it _were_ possible, Draco had no desire to commit himself to a life of crime thwarting like some bloody Gryffindor. 

And so, Draco continued with his carefully established routine, trying his best to banish each and every thought of Potter from his mind. After all, repression was something he was all too skilled at. If he just ignored the issue, sooner or later, he’d forget all about Harry Potter and this ruddy Auror business and could go about living his life in ignorant peace.

 

* * *

 

His stab at normalcy was shattered by a knock on the door. 

It was a Wednesday afternoon, a little over two weeks after his meeting with Potter. Lounging on his couch, Draco sat reading a book, curled up under a throw blanket in an attempt to thwart off the chill of his flat. 

Startled, Draco glanced up from his book, wondering for half a moment if he’d imagined the noise. The thought was quickly dashed when another series of knocks sounded from his front door.

His heart skipped a beat. _Shite._ The only people who knew where he lived were Pansy, his mother, and the Ministry of Magic. Pansy always announced her visits, and Narcissa never left the damn Manor. That left only one possible conclusion. 

Rising hurriedly from the couch, Draco allowed his book to drop from his lap to the floor. The Ministry generally announced their visits, but they liked to drop by every so often to perform random searches of his flat. It was either time for a surprise inspection, or he’d unknowingly broken one of his restrictions and they’d come to interrogate him about it. 

Mind racing, Draco wiped his sweaty palms on his trousers. He was fairly certain he’d abided by both his spell and Apparation restrictions in recent months. Likely an inspection, then. The only possibly incriminating thing he had in his flat was his Polyjuice. He still had several vials of the potion left in his kitchen cabinet. Aside from that, he was clean; no Dark artifacts to be found anywhere. However, there was no time to banish the Polyjuice now- and they could always check his wand for a Banishing Spell anyway. He would just have to hope that whatever officials the Ministry sent weren’t too thorough in their search. 

More pounding from the door. Draco’s chest clenched with panic. It must be serious if they were this insistent. “Coming,” he called out, clearing his throat when his voice grated from disuse. 

Pulling his jumper down from where it’d rode up on his stomach, Draco jammed his feet into his slippers and made an attempt to smooth his hair. Squaring his shoulders, he walked toward the front door and unlatched it, muttering under his breath when more knocking sounded before he’d even had a chance to open the door.

“Yes, how may I help-” 

Oh, _fuck._ Draco’s voice cut off mid-sentence. 

“Er- hi?” 

Draco squinted at the figure in front of him. He blinked his eyes tightly closed and then open again, but the image remained unchanged. Not a dream, then. “Merlin’s fucking beard,” he muttered in marked disappointment. 

Harry Potter gazed down at him bemusedly, looking terribly out of place on his doorstep in his bright red robes and wool traveling cloak. “Ah. No. Just me. Wasn’t sure if you were home.” 

Draco felt his eye twitch. “And how do you know where I live?” 

“Kind of a long story,” Potter admitted, looking a bit abashed. “Can I come inside?” 

Draco clenched his jaw. “No,” he said shortly, going to swing the door shut. Before he could latch it, a booted foot caught in the door-frame, halting his ministrations. 

“Um-” Potter breathed, looking a bit panicked through the crack of door. “I really do need to speak with you. If you’d rather we talk out here, that’s fine; though I think we may attract the wrong sort of attention.” 

Wrong sort of attention indeed. A man dressed in full Auror garb, wand still clenched in hand, standing outside his Muggle flat in broad fucking daylight. You would think they’d train Aurors to be a bit more inconspicuous, was surprisingly the first thought which came to Draco’s mind. 

“Fine,” he conceded unhappily, cracking open the door just wide enough for the other man to enter. “Be quick about it.” 

“Ta,” Potter said, entering his flat and stomping his snow-trodden boots on Draco’s front mat. “Nice place,” he commented lightly, going to unlatch his cloak as Draco closed the door behind him. 

It wasn’t, and Draco knew it. Even his front hallway was small and cramped and poorly lit, with peeling wallpaper and water stains on the ceiling. “How did you find me?” he demanded suddenly, changing the subject before Potter could further comment on the decor. 

“Ah- well.” Potter draped his cloak over a nearby chair and cleared his throat. “Funny story. I tried Malfoy Manor first, believe it or not. I kind of figured you still lived there.” 

Draco’s stomach sank somewhere past his knees. _Fuck fuck fuck._ Had anyone seen Potter at the Manor? Had his _mother_ seen Potter at the Manor? Merlin, that would be about the last thing he needed right now. 

Potter continued speaking, oblivious to Draco’s internal panic. “I knocked on the front door and everything. Some house elf answered. Uh- Nubby, is it?” 

“Knobbly,” Draco corrected automatically, mind numb. 

“Yeah, that’s the one. Anyhow, he told me that “Master Draco” hadn’t lived there for years. Wouldn’t tell me where to find you though, so there is that. I did some digging at the Ministry and found your file. It was easy enough to track you down from there.” 

“Isn’t that considered an invasion of privacy?”

Potter at least had the decency to look embarrassed. “Er- sort of, yeah. But I didn’t have any other way to contact you. You didn’t seem too keen on owl post, last time we met. You weren’t making much sense in the pub that night, but you said enough where I deduced that sending another owl would be a bad idea.” 

Draco nodded distractedly. Ah, yes. He vaguely remembered Pansy saying something to that effect. “Not much better showing up in that getup,” he muttered, gesturing vaguely toward the man’s bright red robes. 

“Oh,” Potter said simply, looking down at his robes as if realizing what he was wearing for the first time. “Oh, shite. I suppose you’re right. I didn’t realize this address was in a Muggle neighborhood. Didn’t even cross my mind that it might be a possibility, to be honest. I just Apparated straight here from work. Sorry about that. Don’t think anyone saw me; and if they did, I’ll take full responsibility with the Ministry, of course.”

Of course he bloody would. Making a noncommittal noise, Draco crossed his arms tightly over his chest. Potter just stood there, looking terribly apologetic, boots steadily dripping a puddle of melted snow onto his front rug. 

Draco sighed wearily. “Come on, then. You might as well come in properly.” Turning away from the man, he walked into his kitchen without bothering to see if Potter was following him. Merlin, he’d have almost preferred a Ministry inspection to _this_ sort of company. Potter was like some bloody disease that he just couldn’t shake. 

At least his kitchen was fairly clean. Cramped and shabby, like the rest of his flat, but not too terribly messy. Why he cared what impression he made on Harry Potter was beyond him. Draco hurriedly banished some dirty dishes from the sink and cast a Cleaning Charm on the counter-top before Potter entered the room. 

“Sit,” he instructed the man distractedly, beginning to rummage through a cupboard. “I’m making tea. Want some?” It was more for his benefit than Potter’s, he assured himself. He needed a strong cup to get through the conversation to come. 

“Uh, sure,” Potter answered, sinking down in a chair. He glanced around the kitchen, looking curiously at the cauldrons jammed in the room’s far corner. “Thanks.” 

Draco suppressed a shudder. Pulling his tea canister from the cupboard, he set to filling the kettle with water from the sink. Grabbing his box of matches from the counter, he lit one of the ancient gas burners on his stove-top. Setting the full kettle on the burner, he turned to find Potter staring at him, mouth hanging open, an expression of open confusion plastered on his face.

“What?” Draco snapped, flushing slightly. “Not up to your standards, Potter?” 

The man seemed to realize he was staring. “Um, no,” he said hurriedly. “Sorry. It’s just, uh- you’re not using magic. To make the tea, I mean.” 

Draco paused where he’d been pulling two mugs from a cabinet. Ah, yes. He supposed that would seem strange to another wizard. “Old habit,” he offered offhandedly, not looking back at Potter as he set the mugs on the counter. 

“Why?”

Fuck sake. He wasn’t sure if Potter was being intentionally invasive or if he was just too bloody obtuse to realize when a conversation was unwelcome. Probably the latter, Draco figured. He grit his teeth. “Wasn’t allowed to do magic, first year after the trials,” he explained shortly. Potter ought to know that. He was at the sentencing hearing, for Merlin’s sake. “Doing some things the Muggle way is habit now. I find tea actually tastes better when prepared like this. But I can certainly use magic, if you’d prefer.” 

“No,” Potter insisted hastily, eyes growing wide. “No. It’s all good. I was just surprised, is all.” 

That seemed to be what he lived for these days. Surprising Harry Potter. Draco pointedly ignored the other man. When the kettle boiled, he steeped and poured the tea, then carefully carried the two steaming mugs to the table. “Milk or sugar?” he offered, his ingrained hosting manners coming to forefront. 

“Both, if you have them.”

Using magic this time, Draco flicked his wand and summoned both items to the table. He watched with marked disgust as Potter filled his mug to the brim with milk and put not one, but _four_ heaping teaspoons of sugar in the drink. What a waste of perfectly good tea.

“Ta,” Potter thanked him belatedly, blowing on his steaming mug before taking a large sip of the overly-sweetened drink.

“Mmhm,” Draco murmured in response, sinking into a chair and gripping his own mug distractedly. 

Potter took another long drink. Glancing around the room again, he gave a gentle smile that had Draco’s stomach inexplicably turning. 

“Nice place,” he repeated his earlier comment, seemingly to himself. 

Draco scowled and took a sip from his own mug. “No need to lie to my face.”

Potter turned toward him hurriedly. “Oh. Um, no. I’m not saying it to be polite. Really, I quite like it here. I had nearly forgot what a Muggle flat looks like. Kind of reminds me of the place I grew up, though a bit more... er...”

“Decrepit?” 

Potter grinned wryly. “I was going to say ‘quaint’.”

Draco rolled his eyes. “It’s a hovel. No need to beat around the bush.” And no need to tell Potter that this was one of the nicer places he could afford. 

The other man shrugged dismissively. “How long have you lived here?”

“Two years, give or take,” Draco replied shortly. “Now, shall we cease with the small-talk and discuss why you’re currently sat in my kitchen?”

Potter set down his mug with a short bark of laughter. “Ah, yes. I forgot that you’re not one for pleasantries. Sure, Malfoy. Let’s discuss it. Have you given any further thought to the offer I made the other week?” 

Draco stiffened. Logically, he knew this was why Potter had shown up at his flat, but this was truly the last thing he wished to discuss. “A bit,” he replied warily. 

“And? Have you made a decision? It’s been over two weeks already. I thought I would have heard from you by now.” 

“There’s no decision to be made,” Draco replied tightly, avoiding the other man’s gaze. “Like I told you before. There’s no chance in hell the Ministry would hire me on as an Auror. So there’s really no point in discussing the matter further.” 

“You really are fixated on that, aren’t you?”

“What do you mean?” 

“You know.” Potter’s frown deepened. “That whole business with the Ministry. You really think they wouldn’t even consider hiring you.” 

“Of course they wouldn’t,” Draco snapped, gripping his tea so tightly that his hand began to burn from the heat of the ceramic mug. “You don’t seem to understand, Potter. _Nobody_ will hire me. For three bloody years I’ve tried to find employment! And I’ve been turned down for everything- even for positions I’m more than qualified for! Working as an _Auror_ is entirely outside the realm of possibility for me!” 

“But it’s not,” Potter insisted calmly. “I wouldn’t be wasting my time, otherwise.” 

Draco growled and ran a hand violently through his hair. Merlin’s beard. The man was beyond reason. Pushy and persistent in all the wrong ways. Wouldn’t take no for a bloody answer. 

Potter seemed to sense his mounting upset. “Hey,” he interrupted Draco’s silent musings. “It’s fine if you truly don’t want to apply. But if it’s just fear of rejection holding you back, that’s another thing entirely.”

“I’m not _afraid_ of rejection, Potter!”

“Sorry. Poor choice of wording,” the other man apologized hastily. “Christ, this really isn’t the way I intended this conversation to go.” 

Draco leaned back in his seat and fixed Potter with a glowering stare. Maybe the man would take his silence as refusal if he wouldn’t listen to words.

“Look,” Potter sighed heavily. “I did come here for a reason. I wanted to tell you that I spoke with Madame Sung. Head of the Auror training program,” he further explained at Draco’s pointed look. “I told her about you-” 

“I didn’t give you permission to speak with anyone about me,” Draco interrupted, previous commitment to remaining silent forgotten. “I never agreed-”

“Just _listen_ for a bloody minute, will you?!” Potter cut in, raising his voice for the first time during their entire conversation. “Fuck sake, you’re difficult to reason with! Let me explain, yeah?” 

Draco stiffened and crossed his arms over his chest. "I'm all ears." 

Potter let out a long, carefully controlled exhale. _"Anyway._ I told her that I suggested you apply to the Auror program. Put in a good word for you. It took a fair bit of convincing, but she’s agreed that if you do apply, she’ll interview you and give you fair consideration.” 

Draco’s heart fluttered wildly in his chest. “Really?” the question slipped out without conscious thought. 

“Really,” Potter replied, a slow smile spreading across his face. “Merlin. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you look so stunned.” 

Draco blinked dazedly, arms still crossed tightly over his chest. “You got me an interview?” he clarified, feeling strangely disconnected from his body in the moment. 

“Yep.” Potter grinned broadly. “If you’ll agree to it. What do you think?”

“I… I’m not sure,” Draco admitted, mind absolutely reeling. What _did_ he think about becoming an Auror? Now that it was an actual, tangible possibility, he wasn’t too sure at all.

“That’s fine,” Potter insisted reassuringly. “How about you take the night to think it over? I realise it’s a big decision. But I’m glad I came to talk with you, at least. You seem a bit more open to the idea now.” 

Draco nodded. Then shrugged. Then nodded again. His thoughts were a muddled, confused mess. He reached down and grasped his mug to give his hands something to hold, staring dazedly at the cup of tea. 

Potter seemed to recognize he needed time to himself. The man finished his drink in one long swig. “I’ll leave you to think,” he spoke quietly, clapping a hand on Draco’s shoulder as he rose from the table. “How about you fire-call me tomorrow? Let me know what you’ve decided? ‘Harry Potter’s office, Ministry of Magic’ should reach me just fine. Alright?”

Draco continued to stare fixedly at the table. He nodded mutely after a long moment. 

“...I’ll see myself out, then.” Potter spoke after a minute of uncomfortable silence. “Thanks again for the tea.” 

Draco grunted. Not looking up, he listened silently as Potter set his mug in the sink, walked into the hall, collected his cloak and then opened and latched the front door closed again. 

And then, Draco was left blessedly alone, save for his raging emotions and conflicted thoughts.

 

* * *

 

That night, Draco dreamed. And as often happened when his mind was in a state of upset, his dream quickly morphed into a full-fledged night terror.

He dreamed of dismembered bodies and bloodshed. Of clammy hands stroking bare flesh and digging sharp nails into fragile skin. Of disembodied voices whispering sweet, terrible nothings in his ear. Of a wet tongue, trailing up the side of neck, mouthing at his throat-

He woke choking back screams, with bleeding crescent wounds on his palms where his own nails had broken skin. 

These types of nightmares were the worst kind. A horrible, twisted combination of reality and fabrication. When truth and fantasy bled so closely together, he struggled to separate them.

Sweating, Draco kicked his bedcovers off, only to shiver when cool air met clammy skin. Disgusted, he pulled his sweat-soaked nightshirt off as well. Lying naked in bed, he trembled violently, allowing the biting cold to anchor him back to reality. 

Clenching and unclenching his tender hands, he focused intently on the stinging sensation the action offered. When his nerves finally settled, Draco burrowed back under his covers, tucking the comforter over his head and huddling into a tight ball. 

He lay there for an indefinite amount of time, exhaling shuddering, moist breaths into his pillow as his thoughts raced and his body trembled. He listened mindlessly to the howling wind rattle his windowpanes; eventually, the sound lulled him into a numb, half-conscious sleep.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and kudos water my crops and soothe my soul ;)  
> If you take the time to leave either, I would be so, so grateful <3
> 
> I've also published a one-shot Draco/Harry piece titled "trapped in a blue haze." A 5k post-war fic focusing on Draco discovering the truths of Harry's abusive childhood. Check it out if it sounds like something you'd be interested in ;)


	6. my mind is

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _my mind is_  
>  a big hunk of irrevocable nothing which touch and  
> taste and smell and hearing and sight keep hitting and  
> chipping with sharp fatal tools  
> in an agony of sensual chisels  
> -ee cummings

The shrill, monotonous beeping of a snowplough woke Draco the next morning, so early that sunlight had barely begun to creep in through his window blinds.

His head pounded with each piercing beep of the vehicle. Groaning, Draco cracked his bleary eyes open. He lay curled up in a tight ball underneath his bedcovers, duvet pulled up over his head. His entire body ached and throbbed with weariness, and his head felt as though it were stuffed with cotton. He was unsure how much sleep he'd managed the night prior, but was certain it could not have amounted to more than a few hours.

Despite his bone-deep exhaustion, Draco found he could not drift back to sleep. Memories of the day prior came flooding back to him now that he lay awake in bed. His mind raced with recollections of Harry Potter and their talk of Aurors and employment and interviews and other various absurdities.

Feverently, he wished it had all been a dream. But no- that conversation with Potter had actually happened. If he consented, Draco now had the promise of a job interview with the Ministry. A fair shot at gainful employment. A chance to become an _Auror._

All at once, it felt overwhelmingly hot and stifling in his cocoon of blankets. Ripping the bedcovers off his body, he tossed them in a haphazard heap on the floor.

Merlin's balls. Yesterday had actually happened. Harry Potter had actually been _inside his flat._ Had sat in his shabby little excuse of a kitchen. Had complimented his decour, or lack thereof. And he, Draco Malfoy, had served the saviour of the wizarding world a cup of bloody _tea._

For some reason, the thought of this seemed unbelievably funny to Draco in the moment. Nerves already on edge, he was sent into a sudden fit of hysterics. Beginning to laugh uncontrollably, his chest heaved almost painfully from the action. He continued to giggle until the sun had fully risen and tears began to leak from the corners of his eyes.

_Fuck._

 

* * *

 

Draco was a firm believer that there was no situation a strong cup of tea couldn't improve. At least, this was what he tried to convince himself of as he sat at his kitchen table later that morning, mug clasped in hand.

Staring at the steaming amber liquid, Draco leaned forward and allowed its radiating heat to warm his chilled face.

Draco Malfoy, Auror.

Frowning, he turned the title over in his head. It sounded foreign. Unfamiliar and strange, and quite frankly, wrong.

Sighing, he took a sip of tea and hunched down in his chair. What little sleep he'd managed overnight had done little to help make up his mind. Honestly, the only thing he was sure of was how conflicted he felt over this whole situation.

On the one hand, Auror was near dead last on the list of occupations he deemed suitable for himself. Even when he had been in the position to aspire toward a legitimate career, Auror had never been something he'd even considered. He was the son of a Death Eater, for fuck sake. He had taken the Dark Mark himself, mere days after his sixteenth birthday. To consider a career in Magical Law Enforcement would have been laughable. More than that, it would have been _treachery._ Fraternizing with the enemy. Even having those types of thoughts could get you killed.

Shaking his head, Draco tried to push _those_ memories firmly from his mind.

But now… now Draco wasn't sure what to think. Sure, he'd always been good at Defense. Probably second only to Potter, and maybe Granger, in their year. But being an Auror required more than just an aptitude toward Defense. Aurors were _brave._ They were noble and heroic and daring, and at least in Draco's mind, _Gryffindor._

And he was anything but.

Still, the allure of a steady, well-paying job was tempting, to say the least. What was more, it was a distinguished, refutable career. One that, dare he even hope, may help restore his standing in society.

Damn. Why did this all have to be so bloody difficult?

Cupping his chin in one hand, Draco sat slumped at the table for an indefinite amount of time, brooding and lamenting unapologetically.

Out of nowhere, a deafening 'POP!' sounded from behind him. Startled by the noise, Draco jolted his arm and unintentionally knocked his cup of tea straight into his lap.

"Oh, buggering fuck!" Draco swore, leaping upright from his seat. Thankfully, the liquid had long since grown tepid, but he was still left with a soggy lap and a puddle round his chair.

"Master Draco!"

Whipping his head around, Draco was shocked to see a house elf standing in the corner of his kitchen. The creature was quite elderly, with drooping, saggy skin and a hunched back. He wore a stained teatowel as a sort of toga, with a bit of twine wrapped round his waist to hold the garment in place.

"Grubbly?" Draco asked after a moment, now recognizing the creature as one of the ancient Malfoy family house elves.

The elf grunted in affirmation. "Master Draco needs to be minding his language, he does."

Fumbling for his wand, Draco cast a hasty Cleaning Charm on himself and the floor. Grubbly stood there watching him silently, hands on his hips and a firm frown set across his wrinkled little face.

"What's wrong?" Draco asked hurriedly, stomach sinking as he took in the elf's grim expression. "Is it my mother? Has she taken ill?"

Grubbly humphed and shook his head. "Mistress Narcissa is being in good health. We elves be making sure of that. But the Mistress is needing to speak with you right away. I is being instructed to bring you straight home."

Taken aback, Draco merely stared. Never before had his mother sent an elf to collect him. Doing so was much too plebeian for her tastes. When she had want of his company, she sent a letter. Or, very rarely, fire-called. Something must be truly wrong for her to send Grubbly to his residence.

Across the room, the elf tutted and shook his head back and forth. "The Mistress is being very upset, indeed. Very worried about the strange man. You needs to be coming with me straight away."

Strange man?

And then, with a sinking sort of horror, he recalled Potter mentioning he'd visited Malfoy Manor yesterday.

A chill worked its way down Draco's spine and he shuddered involuntarily. Well, fuck. This was just bloody fantastic. His mother must have found out about Potter after all. And now, Draco was stuck in the decisively uncomfortable position of being the one to explain things to her.

Feeling thoroughly dismayed, Draco sunk down in a kitchen chair and buried his face in his hands. Merlin, could he never catch a break? Sometimes, it seemed as though the universe had a personal vendetta against him. From behind him, he heard Grubbly clear his throat.

"We best be leaving now, Master Draco. The Mistress will be getting worried."

Draco groaned in response. "Tell my mother I'm indisposed."

The elf coughed nervously. "I is not to be leaving without Master Draco. I is being given permission to bring you back with force, if it is being necessary."

Damn his mother and her persistence. Raising his head from his hands, Draco turned to glare at Grubbly. The elf stood directly beside him, skinny arms twitching disconcertingly as though getting ready to grab and Apparate Draco away right then and there.

Alarmed, Draco bolted upright from the table.

"Fine," he agreed hurriedly as Grubbly took a step closer, looking a bit too frenzied for Draco's comfort. "Alright, I'll go! Can I at least change first? I don't think Mother would much appreciate me showing up in _this!"_

Grubbly paused, arms still outstretched, eyeing Draco's oversized jumper and tea-stained pajamas critically. "Master Draco is looking very shabby indeed," the elf informed him with a frown. "Yes. Hurry and go put on proper clothes for the Mistress."

"Happily," Draco growled, turning and stalking out the kitchen before the elf could further accost him.

 

* * *

 

"Hello, Mother."

"Oh, Draco!"

He narrowly managed to restrain from flinching as his mother practically flew from her seat on the sofa and wrapped him in a frantic embrace.

"Oh, my Darling! I was so worried. Are you quite alright?"

He was unused to his mother showing such open displays of affection. Draco patted her on the back in what he hoped was a reassuring manner. "I'm fine, Mother," he murmured uncomfortably. "What made you think otherwise?"

Hastily, Narcissa grasped Draco by the shoulders and held him at arm's length. Face pinched with concern, she looked him up and down, as though reassuring herself he was still in one piece. "Grubbly," she addressed the house elf, who still stood hovering in the door-frame of the parlor. "Leave us for a time."

The elf pursed his lips but nodded. With a snap of his fingers, the creature disapparated away.

"Come and sit," Narcissa insisted, placing a hand between his shoulder blades and guiding him toward the sofa. "Oh, Darling. Has he found you yet?"

Though he knew exactly who his mother was talking about, Draco decided the safest strategy was to play dumb. "Has who found me, Mother?" he asked, trying hard to keep a neutral face.

Sinking down next to him on the sofa, Narcissa wrung her hands together nervously. "Harry Potter came here yesterday, asking after you," the woman breathed after a long moment. "The house elves saw fit to inform me this morning."

"Oh," said Draco simply.

Narcissa stared, her gaze fixed and piercing. "Are you in trouble?" she asked suddenly, blue eyes glimmering with something akin to panic. "Is it the Ministry? Or something worse? Why would the Aurors send _Harry Potter_ otherwise?"

Well. Draco supposed that would be the logical conclusion for her to draw. For half a moment, he seriously considered lying to his mother. Feeding her some drivel about Ministry inspections or something of the sort. But she sat there staring at him, looking so frantic and helpless and genuinely worried that it made his stomach hurt. He couldn't lie to her. Not about this.

"No," Draco sighed and averted his gaze. "No, Mother. I'm not in trouble. And Potter did manage to track me down, though it wasn't for whatever reason you're thinking."

Next to him, Narcissa let out a tiny, keening noise. "Then what _was_ it regarding?"

He shifted uncomfortably in his seat, wondering how best to approach the subject. In the end, he decided that blatant honesty was really his only option.

"Mother," Draco spoke slowly, turning his head to look Narcissa directly in the face. "What do you think about me becoming an Auror?"

Narcissa froze. Her eyes widened almost comically. After a moment, her mouth quite literally fell open. Draco found himself thinking that this was probably the first time in his life he'd managed to literally stun his mother speechless.

"I- what?" Narcissa managed to gasp after a prolonged silence. "You. What?"

"That's what Potter wanted to discuss," Draco further explained, trying hard to keep his voice calm for his mother's sake. "The Ministry has agreed to interview me for their Auror training program if I'm amenable."

Narcissa continued to stare. "Training program?" she repeated Draco's words tentatively, as though fearing she hadn't heard him correctly.

"Yes. To become an Auror." He watched his mother closely for any hint of a reaction, but she merely continued to gape at him.

"It's probably a daft idea," he continued after a long moment, looking away to stare pointedly at the floor. "I haven't agreed to anything yet. And I'm not certain how the particulars will work, but I..."

His voice trailed off when his mother grasped him by the chin, gently turning his face back toward her own. Her eyes were glimmering fiercely, and the corners of her mouth curled up, hinting toward a smile.

"Darling," she murmured, voice cracking on the word. "Oh, my darling boy." Her hand moved to gently cup the side of his face.

Draco flushed at the blatant display of affection, but her touch felt too nice to pull away from. He searched her face carefully. "You… approve, then?"

Her hand tightened minutely on his cheek and she broke out in a radiant smile. Draco's chest clenched as he realized how hauntingly reminiscent of her former self she looked in that moment.

"Of course I do," she breathed. "Oh, Draco. An _Auror."_

Yes. An Auror. His gut twisted, as it seemed apt to every time he thought to closely about the notion. Draco caught his mother by the wrist and gently pulled her hand from his face. "You really think it wise? Even with my… history?"

Narcissa's face tightened resolutely. "Yes," she answered without hesitation, though Draco noticed her hand tremble ever so slightly in his grasp. "Oh, Darling. I know I don't… speak of that time very often. But it's like you have always told me, isn't it? We can't live in the past."

Her voice was firm and utterly sincere. Draco felt his chest glow warm at her words, though his head felt spacey and strangely panicky.

"But, I- my restrictions. And- an _Auror._ Mother, I don't know if I can-"

"Hush," Narcissa interrupted, hand tightening on his forearm. "Look at me."

Draco clamped his mouth shut and flit his gaze toward his mother.

She stared at him, eyes practically brimming with warmth and reassurance and tenderness. "I have complete faith in you, Draco," she insisted, voice heavy with restrained emotion. "You can do this. You _need_ to do this."

And with that, something seemed to click into place in Draco's mind. It wasn't a matter of want. It was a matter of need. He needed a job. He needed to support himself and his mother. He needed a purpose. He needed to move forward and try to make something of his life. He needed to pull himself the fuck together already.

"I need to do this," he repeated the words slowly. He felt as though he'd just experienced something akin to an epiphany. "I… you're right. You are absolutely right. As always."

"Of course I am, Darling." Narcissa smiled fondly. "It would be exceedingly foolish to throw away such an opportunity."

Draco bit his lip. "There's no guarantee of anything, though. It's just an interview. They could still very well reject me."

"They won't." The utter conviction in her voice was chilling.

"They may," he corrected, gut clenching. "Potter swore they would be unbiased, but-"

"They won't," his mother repeated with finality. And though she had no real way of knowing if this was true, Draco found himself strangely inclined to believe her.

 

* * *

 

By the time he managed to escape from his mother's inquiring questions and forcible attempts to feed him lunch, it was already well into the afternoon. Draco now stood frozen in the center of his sitting room, staring warily at his lit fireplace. He had promised Potter a response today. He knew he needed to fire-call the other man, but somehow, he couldn't bring himself to step toward the hearth.

Draco clenched his fists and squared his shoulders. He certainly wasn't a Gryffindor, but he was no bloody coward. He had faced the Dark Lord himself, for fuck sake. Surely he could fire-call Harry Potter without working himself into a panic over it.

Exhaling slowly through his nose, Draco smoothed his hair over his forehead and straightened his robes. There was nothing to worry about. He could do this. He _had_ to do this.

Walking toward his fireplace, he grabbed a fistful of Floo powder from the mantle and tossed it into the flames before he had time to hesitate. "Harry Potter's office, Ministry of Magic," Draco spat out. Kneeling on the floor, he took one last shuddering breath before sticking his head into the green column of flames.

His head spun with the familiarly disorienting sensation that came from travelling via Floo. When his dizziness had settled, he opened his eyes and shook his head to clear it. And there, through a haze of green flames, sat Harry Potter hunched at a desk in a figurative shoebox of an office.

Well. At least he'd caught the man before he left work. Draco couldn't decide if he felt relieved about this or not.

He cleared his throat pointedly, trying to catch Potter's attention.

The other man glanced up from his work and craned his head over his shoulder. "Oh!" he exclaimed upon seeing Draco's floating head in the flames. "Malfoy."

"Got it in one," Draco deadpanned. "Good on you, Potter."

Potter cracked a smile at that. Setting down his quill, he rose from his desk and walked over to crouch by the fireplace. "How are you?" he asked after a moment of silence.

"Fine," Draco responded automatically.

Potter tilted his head, leaning closer toward the flames. Distractedly, Draco noted the man had a smattering of pale freckles across the bridge of his nose that he'd never noticed before.

"You sure? You seemed pretty shaken when I left you yesterday."

Draco narrowly managed to restrain from rolling his eyes. Merlin, Potter really _did_ have a complex. "I'm fine."

Potter gave a noncommittal hum and sat back to rest against his heels. The pair of them stared at each other for a long moment, neither quite certain how to proceed.

"So," Potter spoke first, his voice carefully controlled. "Have you reached a decision?"

Well, it was now or never. His mother's words replayed in his mind like a reaffirming mantra. _You need to do this._

"Yes," Draco responded, setting his face in what he hoped was an impassive expression. "I'll do it."

Potter blinked. "You… will?"

"Yes," he repeated with a frown. "What, were you hoping for a different response?"

"Uh, no," the other man insisted, eyes widening. "No, of course not." A grin was slowly spreading across his face. "You really mean it?"

 _"Yes,"_ Draco repeated for a third time, and he was unable to restrain from rolling his eyes this time.

Potter _beamed._ A genuine, thoroughly pleased smile. "Well, alright then! That's brilliant news!"

Draco flushed and found himself feeling very grateful that the flames obscured the color of his face. "So," he briskly changed the subject. "What do I need to submit for my application?"

"Er- well, there's actually no formal application nowadays," Potter explained, looking a bit taken aback by the question. "Suppose we'll need your N.E.W.T results, but we can easily pull those from the files here at the Ministry. Otherwise, it's just a matter of setting up your entrance interview."

Draco gave a tight nod. "Very well. When shall I present myself for the interview?"

Potter scratched his chin, looking a bit bemused. "Uh, I dunno. Whenever Madame Sung is free, I suppose. I'll speak with her and get something set up. Alright if I send you the details via Floo?"

"Yes," Draco replied stiffly.

"Brilliant." Potter grinned again. Draco's chest felt unnaturally tight at the sight.

"Very well. I'll leave you to your work. Unless there was something else?"

"Uh, no," said Potter, shaking his head. "That's everything. You'll watch for my message?"

"Yes."

"Right. Good. Alright then."

Potter continued to stare until Draco finally averted his eyes. "Goodbye then."

"Good-" he heard the other man begin to reply, but Draco was already pulling his face back out of the flames before he heard the end of the sentence.

Once his head was safely back in his sitting room, Draco lay down on the sofa, waiting dazedly for his dizziness to settle.

He stared absentmindedly at the paint-chipped ceiling, allowing his thoughts to wander. _Draco Malfoy, Auror._ The more he thought the words, the less strange they began to sound. Dear Merlin. This was actually happening.

"Draco Malfoy. Auror," he whispered the words into the empty room, letting the weighted feel of them settle in his mouth for the very first time.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so, so much for all of your lovely comments and kudos! I am thoroughly pleased to hear that people are enjoying this story! Hope everyone enjoyed this chapter :D
> 
> Kudos and comments water my crops and soothe my soul ;) If you take the time to leave either, I’d so appreciate it!


	7. if i should sleep with a lady called death

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _if i should sleep with a lady called death_  
>  get another man with firmer lips  
> to take your new mouth in his teeth  
> (hips pumping pleasure into hips)  
> -ee cummings

_"I knew it!"_

"You did not."

"I did too," Pansy insisted, tossing her hair over her shoulder with a huff. "You're painfully transparent at times, Draco. I knew from the minute you told me that you'd agree to apply in the end."

Frowning, Draco took a sip of latte to avoid responding. He and Pansy were sat chatting in a local coffee shop. They tried to meet up at least every other week, though Pansy was more insistent on this unspoken rule than Draco was. Generally, he prefered to visit at her flat, or vise versa, but Pansy oftentimes bullied him into meeting elsewhere. "You can't rot away in that dank Muggle shack for the rest of your life," was her blunt rationale for this.

Across the table, Pansy sat looking all too smug. "I knew you'd see reason. Glad I was able to talk some sense into you."

Draco rolled his eyes. _"You_ had nothing to do with the decision. And honestly, it's just an interview. There's no guarantee of anything."

Pansy shrugged, undeterred. "With Potter on your side, there's really no doubt that the Aurors will take you on. That man has some serious influence. I do wish you'd tell me how you coerced him into helping you."

"I didn't coerce him into _anything,"_ Draco insisted heatedly. "If anything, he coerced _me._ Man's a bloody menace. Doesn't know how to take no for an answer."

A slow grin spread across Pansy's face and she waggled her eyebrows suggestively.

"Fuck sake, Pans," Draco spat, feeling the back of his neck heat up. "Not like _that."_

Pansy snickered. "Deny it all you like. I saw the way you were making eyes at him that night in the pub. Not that I blame you. If I wasn't so keen on Derren at the moment, I'd chat him up too."

"You're mental. He's _Harry Potter._ And I was drunk out of my bloody mind that night."

Pansy gave a noncommittal hum and took a sip of coffee. "So? He's fit as fuck."

"Merlin's balls," Draco muttered under his breath.

"Just saying." Pansy grinned, looking thoroughly pleased with herself. "Deny it all you like, but that man is a hot piece of arse."

_"Stop."_

"Fine, you prude." Pansy rolled her eyes good-naturedly. "When's the interview, then?"

"Monday." Draco shifted in his seat, face still feeling a bit too warm for comfort.

"Damn. Don't give you much time to prepare, do they? That's two days away."

"Honestly, I'd rather just get it over with."

"I suppose there's that," Pansy replied, tilting her head at Draco in consideration. "But that doesn't leave us much time to sort out your outfit. Have you decided what you're going to wear?"

Draco blinked. "No. Not exactly my first priority."

Pansy drummed her fingernails on the tabletop, looking him up and down with a critical eye. "We'll need to go shopping. I've seen the few sets of dress robes you own, and quite frankly, they're appalling."

"Tell me how you really feel."

Pansy shrugged unapologetically. "Oh, they're fine for everyday wear, I suppose. But you can't wear them to this important of an interview. They're terribly outdated. Plus, they don't fit you right anymore. You're too scrawny to fill them out properly."

"Thanks," Draco deadpanned.

"We'll have to visit Madam Malkin's," she continued, pointedly ignoring him. "Their dress robes simply cannot be bested. Nothing too showy, of course, but you'll need something a bit nicer than common robes. A subtle satin, perhaps? Maybe in a midnight blue. That would suit your complexion nicely. We may be cutting it close with the timing, but they can certainly rush orders if the payment is right."

"I can't afford those sort of robes," Draco grumbled, somewhat embarrassed by this admission. "Besides, I hardly think what I wear will be a deciding factor."

"Never underestimate the power of wardrobe," Pansy replied briskly. "And don't be daft. I'll be paying, of course."

"Pansy, _no-"_

"Draco, _yes,"_ she retorted sharply. "I certainly have the funds. Consider it a late Christmas gift. And an early birthday one too, perhaps."

"But I-"

"No arguments. It's as much for my benefit as yours. I simply couldn't live with myself if I let you show up to your interview looking like some sort of street urchin."

Draco grit his teeth. There was no reasoning with Pansy once she set her mind to something. Staring fixedly at the table, he sighed and gave a curt nod of consent.

"Well, certainly don't act as though I'm doing you any favors," Pansy scoffed.

"Thank you, oh gracious one," he drawled sarcastically.

"I prefer 'all benevolent and powerful', actually."

Draco merely rolled his eyes and took a sip of coffee.

 

* * *

 

The weekend veritably flew by. Pansy drug him to Diagon Alley the day following their coffee date and Draco was made to suffer through a miserable two hours of robe fittings. She had graciously cast a Notice-me-not Charm to avoid catching the attentions of other patrons, which was a small blessing. Even so, he had never much enjoyed robe fittings as a child and found the task even more harrowing as an adult.

"Hmm," Madame Malkin tutted, studying Draco in a manner that made him want to cover himself despite being fully clothed. "Classic style, I should think. Darted in the waist to accentuate his lines. Though we'll have to be careful not to over-exaggerate that. We don't want to draw too much attention to his slight frame."

Pansy looked positively gleeful. "Oh, my dear Madam. I completely agree."

In the end, Draco was fit with a set of tasteful, artfully tailored dress robes. Midnight blue, at Pansy's insistence. They fit like a glove, and Draco had to admit, they _were_ quite becoming. He hadn't worn such fine clothing since his Hogwarts days.

"Thank you, Pansy," he murmured later as they made their way out of the shop, new robes shrunken to fit neatly in his pocket.

She grunted in response, brushing off the gratitude. "You can thank me by nailing your interview tomorrow."

 _Tomorrow._ Draco's stomach churned at the thought. "I'll do my best," he agreed mildly, swallowing against the sudden lump in his throat.

"You'd better." Pansy glared at him, looking suddenly dead serious. "Don't you dare sabotage this for yourself, Draco."

"Why would I-"

"You've done it before," she interrupted with a huff. "I won't get into the particulars. But you had damn well better give this your all. None of that wallowing, pitiful, martrying bullshite you're so fond of pulling."

Draco stared, mouth agape.

"Oh, don't look so shocked. I'm more observant than you give me credit for."

She really was. Snapping his mouth shut, Draco averted his eyes from her glowering stare. "Fine," he agreed with a long-suffering sigh. "I swear. Nothing less than one hundred percent effort. Honestly, you remind me more and more of my mother every day."

Pansy grimaced. "I'm not sure whether to take that as a compliment or not."

"Definitely not," Draco replied earnestly, though he shot her a wry grin all the same.

 

* * *

 

Draco woke up on Monday morning feeling surprisingly less anxious than he had anticipated. Though by this point, he was rather numb to it all. Honestly, he just wanted to get this interview done and over with. It was really the uncertainty of the whole situation that was putting him on edge.

He choked down a breakfast of dry toast and an entire kettle of tea to soothe his nerves. Then, he dutifully dressed in his new robes, shaved his face, and fussed with his hair until it lay just so. Looking in the mirror, he entertained the thought that he looked strikingly reminiscent of his younger self.

He Apparated to the Ministry at promptly nine o'clock. The same nervous secretary was manning the front desk this morning and she showed Draco no less trepidation this time around. He was given stammered directions to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement after another painfully drawn-out security check-in.

Making his way through the Ministry's atrium, Draco pointedly ignored the judgemental stares of the few employees who clearly recognized him for who he was. Though he wanted nothing more than to study the ground and hide his face from view, his pride and stubbornness kept his eyes pointing resolutely forward with false confidence.

Upon entering the lift to the second floor, Draco was secretly relieved to find it empty. It was terribly exhausting putting on this sort of farce. This was exactly why he prefered to use Polyjuice during his outings. When the doors of the lift closed behind him, Draco allowed himself a brief moment of respite. Rubbing a hand across his forehead, he let out a heavy sigh. _Damn._ He really needed to get some stronger skin if he was serious about this Auror business. If all this somehow managed to pan out, gossip-prone employees would soon be the least of his concerns.

He composed his face and straightened his back before the lift doors opened again. Making his way down a long hallway, Draco followed the posted signage toward the Auror division of the Department of MLE.

Turning down a large corridor, he was met by the sight of yet another security desk. This one was manned by a uptight looking wizard. A tiny bloke with dark hair and a pinched sort of face, with a nametag pinned neatly to his robes that read 'Patrick'.

Draco cleared his throat. 'Patrick' glanced up from his desk at the noise. "Hello, yes, may I help you?" the wizard asked politely, looking Draco dead in the eyes.

Well. Draco had to give the man credit for his directness. Either Patrick truly didn't recognize him or he was very, very good at concealing his true reactions.

"Yes. I have an appointment with Madame Sung this morning. It should be listed under 'Draco Malfoy'."

Draco watched the man's face carefully for any hint of a reaction, but Patrick didn't even flinch upon hearing his name. Giving a brisk nod, the secretary glanced down at a stack of papers on his desk and wet a quill between his lips before jotting down a brief note on a piece of parchment.

"Yes, I see your name listed here, Mister Malfoy. Madame Sung should be expecting you. If you just follow this hallway straight down, her office is the last door on your right. Best of luck to you."

Draco froze. Was it really that simple? Somehow, he had been expecting a drawn out check-in process. Something that involved uncomfortable questions and confiscation of his wand and, quite possibly, some sort of security escort.

"Very well," he murmured, taking a cautious step away from the desk, half expecting to be stopped as the man came to his senses and realised just who he was speaking to. "I'll just… be on my way, then."

Patrick gave a dismissive nod, not once looking up from his paperwork as Draco made his way down the hallway.

 

* * *

 

Madame Sung was a petite, lithe woman. She looked barely older than Draco, and if she stood upright, he was certain her head would barely reach his shoulders. She wore her long, dark hair pulled back in a tight bun, and she had coal-black eyes that were piercing and steadfast. Though she was tiny, Draco had absolutely no doubt that she was lethal. And though they looked nothing alike, Draco found himself unnervingly reminded of Minerva McGonagall when he looked at her.

She certainly acted like McGonagall, at any rate. Within seconds of meeting her, Draco realized that Madame Sung had a straightforward, no-nonsense type of attitude.

"Draco Malfoy," he introduced himself, reaching across the desk to shake her hand.

Her grip was firm and unwavering. "Sung Ji-hye," she replied, voice like liquid steel. "You may call me Madame Sung. Or just Madame, as the rest of the trainees do."

Draco nodded tightly, sinking down in the chair across from her desk and flashing a polite smile. "It's an absolute pleasure to meet you, Madame."

"Hmm." The woman clasped her hands together underneath her chin and eyed him critically. "You're the charming type, are you?"

Draco narrowly managed to restrain from wincing. "When I need to be," he replied carefully, taking a gamble and assuming that Madame Sung would be the type to appreciate blunt honesty.

His bet paid off. "Ah," she said, the corners of her mouth curving up in the hint of a smile. "I think you and I might get along splendidly, Malfoy."

"I certainly hope so, Madame."

"Hmm. Trainee Potter speaks quite highly of you. I was reluctant to interview you, for what I assume are obvious reasons. But Potter managed to convince me otherwise. I certainly hope you manage to impress, as he assured me you would."

"I'll endeavor to, Madame."

"Hmm." The woman looked away and picked up a sheet of parchment off her desk. "I have your N.E.W.T results here. Decent, for someone who never finished at Hogwarts."

"Thank you," Draco murmured, though he was fairly sure she hadn't intended it as a complement.

"Outstanding in Defense. Potions as well. Not a necessary requirement for an Auror, but worth mentioning. Exceeds Expectations in Charms and Transfiguration. Average in Ancient Ruins. Not too shabby, Malfoy."

Draco nodded tightly.

Madame Sung looked up from the sheet of parchment, thin lips pressed into a frown. "Why didn't you return to Hogwarts to complete your schooling?"

Draco swallowed against his dry throat. "There were… extenuating circumstances, outside of my control." He paused, wondering exactly how forthcoming he should be with his answers. There was a fine line between frankness and damning honesty, especially when taking his past into consideration.

Across the desk, Madame Sung continued to stare pointedly, obviously waiting for him to elaborate. _Oh, fuck it._ She didn't seem the type who would appreciate subtlety anyway.

"My trial was held shortly before the start of what would have been my seventh year," Draco continued, trying hard to keep a straight face though speaking about this sort of thing made him very, very uncomfortable. "People weren't overly… pleased with the results of my sentencing. Frankly, it wasn't safe for me to return to Hogwarts. And one of my sentencing conditions was not using magic for an entire year. I was permitted to take my N.E.W.T.S, but after that… it would have been impractical to return to Hogwarts whilst unable to perform magic."

"True enough. How did you cope with your magic being restricted?"

"Poorly," Draco replied honestly. "Though it became easier with time. I was raised in a strictly wizarding family. Having to learn to do things the Muggle way was… difficult for me, at first. But I managed. And I think I'm better for it now. I'm a great deal more resourceful and self-sufficient than I would have been otherwise. And the experience instilled a respect in me for those who live without magic all the time."

Madame Sung's face remained impassive. Without responding, she scribbled a quick note down on a piece of parchment. "I read a transcript of the court record from your sentencing hearing," she abruptly changed the subject. "And whilst it seems that Harry Potter had a great deal to say in your defense, you never spoke at that particular trial. I want to hear your explanation myself. Why did you initially chose to serve Voldemort and become a Death Eater?"

Draco visibly flinched. Fuck sake. This woman had absolutely no tact. Either that, or she truly didn't give a damn about social niceties. Both options were probably true, he reckoned. Discussing this sort of subject was neither polite nor typical conversation between strangers, but Madame Sung hardly seemed the type to care about such decorum.

"I… well," Draco began, hoping feverently that he didn't look as unnerved as he felt. "It was never really a choice for me. It had been expected of me since birth. My father was a Death Eater, as were many of my extended family members… I was raised with the mindset that servitude to You-Know-Who was my _only_ option."

Madame Sung stared at him unblinkingly, black eyes glimmering. She inclined her head slightly, wordlessly prompting him to continue.

Draco gripped the fabric of his robes underneath the desk, trying desperately to maintain a straight face. "I won't pretend that I never wanted to become a Death Eater," he spoke quietly, choosing a point on the far wall to stare at. "As a child, the idea held great appeal. I was told that followers of You-Know-Who would have all the wealth and power they could ever hope for. I was raised to think that his… ideologies were the only ones worth living by. But then…"

"Yes?"

He let out a long exhale. "Then, I grew up, I suppose. I became less naive. I began to see You-Know-Who for what he truly was. I realized how twisted and macabre and _wrong_ his ideologies were. And I saw him and his followers… in action. Witnessed them killing and torturing Muggles and Muggleborns alike. It was gruesome and horrifying… nothing like the gilded life I'd imagined his followers led. I was always told that becoming a Death Eater was the greatest honor I could hope to achieve, but suddenly... I wanted nothing less in this world."

"But you took the Dark Mark anyway."

It wasn't a question. Underneath the desk, Draco's left forearm began to itch terribly. He dug his nails into the palms of his hands.

"I did," he answered shortly. "But by that point, I didn't want to. That I can promise."

"May I see it?"

"See… my Mark?" Draco's face must have shown his alarm because Madame Sung let out a sudden, dry bark of laughter.

"You certainly aren't obligated to show me. Though I am curious as to what yours looks like. It has been many years since I've seen the Mark in person."

Draco swallowed thickly. No one had seen his Dark Mark in almost three years. Not since the trials. He was painstakingly meticulous about keeping it covered. He wore longsleeved shirts year-round, even during the dead of summer. He didn't even like looking at it _himself._ It was hideous and absolutely shameful. But Madame Sung just sat there, looking perfectly composed and so unphased by her inane request. It was surreal.

"I… suppose," Draco finally replied, unsure of what else he could possibly say in this situation. "If you really want to."

"I wouldn't ask otherwise."

Fuck it. Unclenching his fists, he unceremoniously shoved up the sleeve of his robes. He fumbled a bit with the buttoned cuff of the shirt he wore underneath but managed to push that up past his elbow as well. Avoiding looking at his arm, he set the bared extremity on the desk for Madame Sung to survey.

She leaned forward in her chair, thin eyebrows drawn together as she examined his Mark. She did not touch it, for which Draco was very grateful, but she did hover so close that he could feel her breath tickling his bare skin.

"It's not pretty," Draco remarked, if only to fill the silence. And really, it wasn't. The Mark took up the entirety of his forearm. Dark and ugly and branded against pale skin for the rest of eternity.

"No," Madame Sung replied mildly, leaning back in her seat once more. "It's not."

Sudden shame filled Draco's stomach, hot and pulsing and sickening. He hurriedly removed his arm from the desk and made to button up his sleeve.

"Though it does serve as a good reminder for you."

Draco glanced up. Madame Sung sat watching him with hooded eyes, arms crossed tightly over her chest.

He rest his hand back down on his lap. "Yes," he replied softly, completely serious with his agreement. "It certainly does."

"Hmm." The woman cocked her head and stared brazenly. Draco felt rather like a specimen on display. They sat in silence for a long minute until, finally, Madame Sung was the first to speak. "Why is it that you want to become an Auror, Malfoy?"

Draco rubbed his now sleeved forearm. "I've been asking myself the same question for weeks," he admitted quietly. "Some days, I think I know why. Other days, I'm not so certain. It's… difficult to put in words."

"Try."

Draco let out a shaky exhale and stared down at his lap. "I'm tired of hiding," he finally spoke, internally commending himself for managing to keep his voice steady. "I'm tired of doing _nothing._ Sometimes, I feel like I've lived my entire life as a bystander. Like I've never really had a say in anything I do. In becoming a Death Eater. In living this life of- of _exile._ I… feel like I'm in a constant haze of monotony. And I'm tired of it. I want- I _need-_ to do _something._ To have a purpose that _I_ get to choose for once."

Draco glanced up at Madame Sung. She sat watching him with a curious sort of expression, arms still crossed over her chest. Her mouth was pursed and she made no attempt to speak despite the pregnant pause in conversation.

Fuck. Maybe he'd been a bit _too_ honest with that. Draco looked away and cleared his throat. "Look. I get that I'm not exactly a prime candidate for this program," he said, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. "I'm not naive. I understand that 'Death Eater' and 'Auror' don't exactly go together. But if given the opportunity, I believe I could truly succeed here."

"Do you, now?"

Draco bit his lip and nodded tightly. "I do. The Dark wizards you lot track and capture? I know exactly how those types of people _think._ How they act. What makes them tick. I've lived and experienced it firsthand. I doubt any of your other Aurors can claim the same."

"No," Madame Sung replied, her expression still unreadable. "They certainly cannot."

Draco continued, undeterred. He might very well be digging his own grave, but frankly, he didn't care. Now that the floodgates had opened, he was unable to stop the words from pouring out.

"That's where I have the upper hand. The one way in which my past works to my advantage. I alone have that experience and intel. And what's more, I have true motivation to succeed as an Auror. I know better than anyone _exactly_ how messed up this world can be. What sort of fucked up beliefs and morals some wizards live by. Fuck, some of the things I saw _done_ to people… I still have nightmares about it. I couldn't- I _didn't_ \- do anything about it then. Just sat there and watched innocent people tortured and slaughtered like bloody animals. _Shite._ Like I said- I'm fucking tired of being a bystander. Like hell if I'm going to just sit around on my arse and wait for the next Dark Lord to rise to power. Fuck that."

Dead silence filled the room. Draco breathed heavily, shoulders heaving up and down, feeling nearly winded after such an impassioned tirade. He felt the blood rush from his face as he realized exactly what he'd just said aloud. Realized, belatedly, that it probably wasn't the best idea to use that sort of language, or talk about those sort of taboo topics during a job interview.

Clenching his fists, Draco dared to glance up at Madame Sung. To his immense astonishment, the woman was _smiling._ A wide, toothy, nearly predatory grin. Leaning forward in her seat, she gave a sharp nod of approval that had Draco's chest clenching at the sight.

"That's more like it, Malfoy." The woman's dark eyes gleamed dangerously. "Well fucking said."

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahhh, so much angst! ;D Thank you so much for your continued support!
> 
> If you take the time to leave kudos or comments on this work, I would be so, so grateful! They are truly what motivate my writing (and make my life, really) ;)


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